


Nebulous

by Kid Omega (Kid0mega)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Death References, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, References to Drugs, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 36,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kid0mega/pseuds/Kid%20Omega
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Fall, nearing the end of Sherlock's three-year "death". John has been dating Mary for the last few months, but he is still far from himself. The return of Sherlock changes John's life entirely, and the detective finds himself feeling things he thought long deleted.</p><p>“No. Say it. Did you miss me?” John felt his pulse throbbing in his brain. There was something heady about the idea of having power over Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>“With every second of every day.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time ever writing fanfiction, so please be gentle! That said, any constructive criticisms/suggestions would be much appreciated. I'm emotionally distraught and can't bring myself to watch the show over again, so feel free to let me know of any egregious discrepancies from the actual plot. 
> 
> Also the first few chapters are gonna be pretty angsty, sorry. Dark night of the soul and all that. It'll get fluffy later.
> 
> The first few chapters focus on John and Mary, but fear not. Sherlock returns. It'll get spicy.

**neb·u·lous.** Adjective. /ˈnebyələs/

1\. In the form of a cloud or haze; hazy.  

2\. (of a concept or idea) Unclear, vague, or ill-defined.

3\. Relating to a nebula or nebulae.

* * *

 

“Stop, John, you’re doing it again. John, love, I’m here, please.”

A cool hand on his face pulled John Watson out of the nightmare he had been entirely submerged in. He fought for a hold on something; reality, anything, and found Mary Morstan instead. He gasped for air.

“Are you alright?” The hand stroked his hair soothingly, the soft pressure from her head laid on his shoulder. He reached out through the darkness to lace his fingers through her soft ringlets.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, coming to terms with the darkness of his own room. “Please be careful if I’m in a state like that, though. I wouldn’t want to wake up and accidentally attack you.”

“Hmm.” She was already falling back asleep.

“It was the same dream, yes. He’s standing there, looking down at me. And then… then I turn away, just before he jumps, and I’ve got the rifle in my hand, and then I…” he trailed off. Mary had fallen asleep. John took note of his surroundings. His own bed, his own duvet laying in something of a heap around his feet. In apartment 221b. He had the most wonderful woman lying by his side, a job that paid fairly well, a family that loved him. And yet, John Watson was not ‘alright’. He was far from ‘fine’. Never quite leaving his mind was an emptiness, a crushing blackness that came from knowing that the rest of 221B was entirely empty. His chest ached so intensely he almost feared he was having an attack, but it passed. He buried his face in the unknowing curls of Mary’s head and allowed himself to silently cry. 

* * *

 

There was a soft knock on the door of the apartment, and Mrs. Hudson stuck in her head. Her hair was more white than grey now, and she looked tired constantly. John had taken to having her up for tea nearly every morning. Before Mary had begun staying over, she would often come up for lunch as well and leave him foil-wrapped casseroles for dinner. He knew she only did it to make sure he was eating, but more often than not the pans were scraped into the trash untouched.

“Morning, loves.” Mrs. Hudson sang, offering a basket of what appeared to be pastries from the doorway. “I wondered if you’d be wanting a little something for brekkie? I couldn’t finish these off myself. Getting a little much around the waist,” she added confidentially.

“You certainly don’t have to ask, Mrs. Hudson,” smiled John.

“Good morning!” chimed Mary from the kitchen where she was burning an omelette. She insisted that she had to cook breakfast when she stayed over. She had learned to cook from her mother, she told John, and her mother had also taught her to be gracious. John hadn’t the heart to tell her that her mother’s cooking was meant strictly for those born entirely without taste buds, which was apparently the entirety of the Morstan family. But he tolerated her efforts, appreciative that he wasn’t left alone with only the ghosts of past experiments on the counters and extremities in the refrigerator.

Mary brought over the well-blackened eggs and teakettle to the table where Mrs. Hudson had seated herself next to John. On his other side, his cane laid against his chair. He took an appreciative bite of egg and then switched entirely to tea, focusing his attention on the newspaper.

“CRIMINAL RING EXPOSED!” Cheered the headline. The subtitle: “‘FRAUDULENT’ FORMER DETECTIVE’S NAME CLEARED”. John quite nearly spit out his tea and slammed the paper on the table. The women’s small talk ceased immediately as John bolted for the bathroom.

“John, you have to eat something! What’s wrong?” called Mary after him.

“Oh my,” he heard faintly from Mrs. Hudson as she read the headlines.

Then John was slamming the door, throwing the bolt, and fisting his hair as painfully as he could as cold water pelted down on his form, curled tightly on the floor of the shower and fully clothed. 

 

 


	2. The Leak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John figures out why the press got the breaking news before him, and has a good heart-to-heart with Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter twoooo! I have a bit already written, so I'll upload all of those fairly quickly. Past that, I'll write and post at a pace based on interest from you fabulous readers.

Later that day, once Mary had coaxed John out of the bathroom and out of the house, the couple found themselves on a bench in the park. It was fall, grey and unpleasant, but coffee heating through its cardboard sleeve and Mary in her puffer coat beside him warmed John considerably.

“It’s been nearly three years, John,” she started.

“Since he’s been gone, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“And we’ve been together… five months?”

“Just about.”

John sighed heavily. “Mary, I’m so sorry for how dreadful I must be to you. I can’t imagine a more depressing, awful boyfriend to have. But you’ve been so wonderful to me. I doubt I could have made it through this year without you.”

“John Watson. If you call yourself awful or say the word ‘depressing’ one more time I just might fucking scream,” she quipped in the feisty way she had when she wanted to make a point. “You lost the most dear friend you had in your entire life, and I don’t care if it takes you the rest of your life to get over it. I don’t care if you never stop feeling sad for it, but I will be here to try to cheer you up and help you through it for as long as you’ll have me around. You are sweet, kind, and bloody terrific in the sack. So don’t you go apologising to me for anything.” She took a breath. “I think we should head over to the Yard and talk to Lestrade about the headlines. It’ll help clear your mind and maybe give you a little more closure.”

John smiled at her, taking in her face. Warm brown eyes, a droll little mouth, cheeks reddened by the chilly air. He kissed her softly.

“Thank you, Mary. Really…”

Then she was pulling him off the bench. “Let’s go! We can walk there, it’s not far.”

John linked his arm through hers and they set off slowly, Mary patiently keeping time with his limp. The closer they got to the Yard, the faster he felt his pulse increase. Something was happening. Something that had somehow never been mentioned to him, somehow getting into print before getting to his ears. Mary turned and smiled at him briefly, and then John thought of his grandmother’s engagement ring. Then they were walking into the building and John shook off the thought, his mind only on Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 

“Absolute _fucking_ lunacy!” Shouted Lestrade, slamming the offending newspaper down on his desk. “You’re damn right you should have known first, John, you should have known before anyone else outside of this _fucking_ department!” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I do not know how this leaked, John, but somebody from the team would have had to talk directly to the press and take the damned files off my desk. This is entirely unacceptable. I’ll bet there was a payoff. Just a moment.” The Detective Inspector poked his head out of his office and shouted into the space beyond: “Everybody into the briefing room _now._ ” He whirled back in.

John rose, stepping closer to his enraged friend. “It’s alright, Greg. I just wanted to know the details.”

Lestrade took a deep breath. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just mostly angry that it took me until three in the afternoon to look at a bloody newspaper. Or for someone to say anything to me. The details just finally came together the other night, and I had planned on talking to you and then scheduling the press release. This is a pretty big deal, obviously. Moriarty’s body pretty much disappeared for a year and a half, we drop the case, then we find it out in… where was it? Leeds? Clearly moved by a third party, and only then could we start actually doing a trace on him and figuring out the whole thing he had going. Isolating his snipers and interrogating and such. Would have involved you directly at that point, but I mean… you understand it seemed sensitive to bring it up.

I actually just got the final testimony from one of the jurors he threatened a month ago. And it’s still dangerous, because we don’t know exactly how far his whole ring of associations stretched, see, we’ve got leads as far as China and California. So it wasn’t even clear if we _could_ release the information yet. But somebody must have paid someone else off.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, processing the information. Mary squeezed his free hand. “Okay. Well. Alright.”

“John, I’ve gotta go grill the stupid bastards on my team and find out who decided to leak this. But I would be happy to go into more detail with you on this a little later,” Lestrade offered.

“Thanks, but it’s okay. I guess it’s just a bit of a relief, and a shock, is all. I think I’d like to head home.” He glanced at Mary. “If that’s alright with you?”

“I think we’ve certainly seen enough of the world for the day,” she smiled. “You go get ‘em, Greg.”

Lestrade smiled back at her fondly. John still seemed deeply depressed most of the time, but he had at least been leaving the house and putting on a bit of the weight he had lost since he started seeing Mary. She had charmed most of the team and taken to forcing John out to have a pint with Lestrade once in a while. The DI was briefly quite touched, but then snapped back into authoritative mode. “Right. They better have some damn good alibis worked out.”

He nodded at the couple and then stormed out and towards the briefing room, where a group of somewhat terrified-looking members of the law enforcement were gathered. 


	3. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is torn over a big decision, but it may very well not matter at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit starts to go down

Once the containers from that night’s order-in curry had been disposed of and a sufficient amount of chamomile drunk, Mary fell soundly asleep on the couch. The blue glow from the TV-film they had been watching made her face look somewhat ghostly. John freed himself from the vice of her feet and padded softly into the typically abandoned room of his former flatmate. A layer of dust had settled over most things, making solid the milky rays of light that filtered in through the windows. John steeled himself, taking it in slowly. The ache in his chest grew and then passed in a short burst, and he was suddenly nearly overcome with the urge to scream. Instead, he quietly addressed the room itself:  
“I knew you were lying,” he whispered. “I never gave up on you. I guess everybody will feel bloody awful about it now.” He lowered himself to the floor, feeling the wooden panels under his fingers. “I think I might propose to Mary.” he blurted, feeling somehow ridiculously guilty as he said it. “You wouldn’t like her. She’s very sweet and has no taste for violence or danger or anything of the sort. And I know it’s only been a short time, but I feel like she might be the only thing keeping me sane right now. It’s been three years without you, you know. Well, no. You don’t know. You’re not here. I guess I just want to tell you that I understand, now. Why you did it. At least I think I do. I had just made guesses before, but now I think I know.”  
The doctor stood slowly, leaningly heavily on his good leg. He turned towards the door, but glanced back at the room briefly.  
“Any time you want to come home, Sherlock. Any time you want to prove me wrong, please do.”  
John limped out and into his own room, rummaging in the back of his closet until he found the small case he had been searching for. He opened it to examine the contents, which were gloriously still intact after thirty years of neglect in a box. The ring glinted up at him, lustrously silver and platinum with tiny stones encrusted along the band. Worth more than the entire farm his grandfather had sold to get it. He closed the case and brushed it clean, exposing the blue velvet.   
Tomorrow, he told himself. The sooner the better. 

* * *

  
“Hm, I think I like you in a tux.” Mary purred, reaching from behind John to straighten his tie in the mirror. She rested her chin on his shoulder easily and examined him. “Makes you look like a sexy butler or something.”  
John laughed and turned around, putting his hands on her slim waist. Her dress complemented her figure perfectly, clinging to just the right places. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Or something.”   
She bit her lip mischievously and reached down to his pants, running her thumbs just under the waistline. “And what do you think, Doctor Watson?” she murmured as he drew her in closer. “How do I look?”   
“Stunning.” He said, pushing forward to kiss her lightly. Her lips parted under his, inviting more. He ran a hand up her side, feeling the soft swell of her breasts under the thin silk and lace of her dress. She pulled away softly.   
“We’ll miss our reservation.”  
John sighed complacently, and led her out of the apartment, limping slightly less than usual. Mary slipped his phone into his pocket as they exited. “Just in case.”  
He felt it hit the box already contained within, and glanced back behind him. A couch, a wall with bullet holes and a painted face that was always horribly optimistic. At first he couldn’t place the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Fear? Excitement? No, there it was. Guilt.  
They spent the cab ride in a silence that should have been comfortable, but John’s heart would not stop aching in his chest.   
The dinner was exquisite and, John noted, about the same price as one of Mycroft Holmes’ suits. He scrunched his forehead deeply at the thought, not sure why he was thinking of a man he hadn’t had the least amount of contact with since… since just after the funeral. Mary poked him from across the table with her fork, drawing him out of his head.   
“You have to eat your asparagus, John.”  
“What are you, my mother?” he chuckled, poking at the contents of his plate disinterestedly. Mary recoiled in mock horror.  
“God, I hope not. I just don’t want you to get scurvy and turn all yellow on me. Just because your job is to make others healthy doesn’t mean you get to ignore yourself, you know.”  
“Scurvy would more likely make my teeth fall out than make me turn yellow, you know.”  
“Well, that’s a lovely mental image, John. Thank you.”  
John tipped his head obligingly, and they both laughed.   
“I’m just going to run to the loo real quick,” said Mary. “Don’t you dare send away those greens while I’m gone.”  
She grabbed her purse and walked off, and John reached for the box in his pocket. Should he put it in the bottom of a glass of champagne? Too clichéd. Under her plate? Stupid. He began to feel very nervous, and for some reason he felt like he should leave. If you don’t man up and do this, John, I swear… his train of thought was cut short as Mary sat back down. He shoved the box back down into his pocket.  
“That was… that was fast.” He remarked. Mary raised an eyebrow.  
“Sorry? Anyway, snag the waiter if you see him. I want another glass of wine.”  
“Mary?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“I… you do know that I love you, very much.”  
“I do.”  
“Well, see, I was thinking. I know it might seem a little abrupt…”  
John reached his hand slowly into his pocket again,  
“And I want you to know I don’t want to pressure you into anything…”  
His hand reached the box,  
“But I was wondering…”  
The box rang. Rather, his cell phone rang, hitting against the box he had begun to withdraw. He swore silently. Mary looked incredibly surprised.  
“You should answer, John. Might be from the surgery if they’re ringing this late.”  
John abandoned the ring and brought the phone up to his ear.  
“H—”  
“Come outside immediately. Come alone.”  
“Who is thi—”  
Click.  
John looked anxiously at Mary, keeping the phone by his ear.   
“Ye, yes. Okay. I’ll be in as soon as I can, Sarah. Keep him on the saline drip.” John was typically a terrible liar, but apparently this time he was convincing enough as he lowered the phone from his ear.  
“Trouble at the surgery?” Mary asked.  
“I’m sorry. I really do have to go, though. The man’s got a bullet lodged in his cranium, but he’s still kicking. They don’t want to touch it until I’ve looked it over, what with my experience,”  
“Say no more,” shivered Mary. “Go save a life.”  
“Order yourself that wine, alright? Here’s my credit card.”  
“John—”  
“I won’t hear it. I’m really sorry about this.” He crossed the table and kissed her thoroughly. “I likely won’t get in until late. Or tomorrow. I love you.”  
She blew him a kiss as he limped away, his head pounding. The box in his pocket tapped against his thigh with each step, mocking him. And somehow he felt relieved. He might well have been walking into certain death, but it had bought him more time.

* * *

  
The street outside the restaurant was mostly empty, and John briefly wondered if he had taken too long getting out. His fears were disproven in the form of a dangerously familiar black car that pulled up to the curb, and the dangerously familiar face that poked out and beckoned him in.   
“Anthea, right?”  
“Andromeda, now. Please get in.” Her eyes never really left the phone in her hand.  
John sighed deeply and obliged.


	4. The Illusionist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees a ghost, and punches it.

  
The car ride passed largely in awkward silence, save the tapping of phone keys and the sound of John picking at the stitching in the leather seat. He made one attempt at discerning what was happening:  
“Mycroft doesn’t usually call when he needs something. Just sort of shows up. Or has one kidnapped.”  
“Yes.”  
“Care to tell me where we’re going?”  
Anth—Andromeda looked up quickly, smiled, and then returned her attentions to her phone.  
Ten minutes later, they were just outside an alleyway John recognised, less than a block from Baker Street.   
“You’re to get out here. He’ll meet you in the alley.”  
“Mycroft?” John asked, practically scoffing at the idea of Mycroft Holmes in an alley, or really any place that wasn’t temperature-controlled and heavily guarded. There was no response. He sighed, then noted to himself to sigh less often. He grabbed his cane and lifted himself heavily out of the car, shutting the door behind him. It drove off immediately.  
Something was happening, something strange that John did not like. He began a cautious hobble down the alleyway.  
“You better have a damn good reason for bringing me here,” he called out. “I was in the middle of—”  
A dark figure unpeeled itself from the shadows. Pale skin peeked out from a flipped collar, wild curls moved slightly in the breeze. Eyes like the winter ocean frozen over nearly glowed out from above sharp cheekbones.   
“John.” A simple word, low and deep.   
Before he fully knew what he was doing, John Watson leapt forward and punched Sherlock Holmes squarely in the face. 

* * *

  
“YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU BLOODY FUCKING BASTARD,” John lashed out with both his fists, swiping the air mostly, meeting well-timed blocks when he got too close. “YOU WERE DEAD, WE BURIED YOU, YOU FUCKING PRICK,” he was running out of steam, his punches turned more into feeble swats. Eventually he found his hands enclosed in the black gloves of his intended victim, holding him up. “Three years, Sherlock. You’ve been gone for three years.”   
A moment of silence. The very-much-alive consulting detective released John and removed a glove to stave off the stream of blood coming from his nose. “You were on a date.”  
It wasn’t a question, really, just an observation.   
“That’s it? You return from the dead and that’s all you have to say?”  
“Well, no, I,”  
“I can’t. Not right now. No. I can’t believe this.”  
“John, let me assure you that I am entirely alive. I would have made my return more timely but met no shortage of obstacle in reinstating myself as a person of any standing and ensuring it was entirely safe. There was an entire web of various peoples employed to or with Moriarty, and it was only responsible for me to—”  
“I watched you jump off a fucking building, Sherlock! I saw you on the ground, in a pool of your own blood. I felt you… I felt you die.”   
“Simply a matter of some rudimentary calculations, nothing more than an illusion, really. A rather elaborate one, but one that became entirely necessary for me to implement at the time. Not for my own safety, John, I’m sure we can both attest to the fact that I hold it in some small regard. For the good of… others, whom my apparent death was necessary to protect.”   
“Oh, for the good of others. Well that just makes it all bloody fine, just brilliant, just… did you ever consider, even for one second, how those ‘others’ might be without you? How they might feel once you died and left them alone?”  
“Speaking in riddles doesn’t suit you. Are you speaking in terms of your own emotional state during my absence? It’s not as though I never took into account how—”  
“Absence. You know what? Bugger the bloody fuck off. And I don’t know how your brother is concerned in this, but tell him to screw off too.”  
John turned and practically ran back down the alley, thanking any God there might be for the darkness that concealed the tears running down his face—tears of anger, confusion, and the most blissful relief he had ever felt.  
Sherlock called after him once, but made no pursuit:  
“John, wait! I’m… I am sorry.”  
  



	5. The Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft explains, and John tries to make sense of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all that I've written up to date (7-25) but I'll continue posting new chapters at as constant a pace as I can manage without churning out crap. Again, feedback of any sort is much appreciated. Cheers!

John whirled into 221B, slamming the door behind him. He gasped for air, his mind reeling, and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

5 New Messages:

_10: 36 PM **MARY:** Heading home to feed the cats and such. Meet tomorrow? Call me when you can. xx_

_10: 54 PM **MARY:** Stopped by your place quickly, leftovers in fridge._

_10: 58 PM **GREG L:** New details you might be interested in. –GL_

_11:10 PM **SARAH** : Mary called, asked if you were in. Should I have said yes? Sorry._

_11:15 PM **MARY:** You have some explaining to do. Call me. _

John read through each message quickly and then turned off his phone. What had he done? What was happening? A rusty streak of dried blood burned across his knuckles, confirming one undeniable fact:

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

He turned his phone back on and sent out one reply:

_11: 18 PM to: **GREG L:** I’ve just seen a ghost. –JW _

It was returned quickly.

11:19 PM **_GREG L:_** _Come down to the yard now if you can. Mycroft is here, says he has answers. –GL_

John removed his tie and turned the phone off again.  Like it or not, he was suddenly in the middle of events beyond his comprehension and of the mysterious sort. He hadn’t felt so confused and somehow excited in three years.

He ran outside; hailed a cab. His cane was forgotten.

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes looked entirely out of place in Lestrade’s office, and Lestrade was quite red with rage at the older Holmes’s insistence that he had to sit behind the DI’s desk. Seargant Donovan and Anderson haunted the back corner, and the entire company looked fairly exhausted. John Watson slammed open the door with as much force as he could muster, and it very quickly sprang back in his face. He recovered gracelessly and entered in a more relaxed fashion, meeting four sets of eyes and a poorly contained laugh from Anderson.

“Before you start going on, John, it wasn’t any of our faults,” whined Sally. “It was all _his_ idea.”

“John,” interjected Mycroft coolly, “the encounter I arranged didn’t seem to go quite as well as I had anticipated. I imagine you’re quite entirely confused.”

“That’s one way to put it.” spat John, scanning the room.

“Due to the extremely high influence of Jim Moriarty, even post mortem, it was clearly necessary from his first encounter with my brother that both individuals would need to be subdued. We did not anticipate Moriarty’s final play and his suicide, however. My brother seemed slightly more prepared and was able to convincingly fake his death. You understand, however, he could not immediately resurface into the world. He would have been killed by any number of criminals, and the lives of his closest… companions were put at risk as well. Namely, you, John. So it became obvious that the best course of action would be to allow my brother a period of time in which he could neutralise any threat against himself or those acquainted with him, while the government worked to clear his name. And, as you obviously know, it just recently became safe for him to return.”

A moment of silence. Then:

“And why the fuck did nobody tell me this?”

“We didn’t know about half of it, John. We were only trying to follow through on the bodies. The rest was beyond me, and all of us here,” Lestrade assured him.

“Well, why didn’t you, you pompous, self-righteous… why didn’t _he_? I’ve been… languishing for the better part of three damn years.” John addressed Mycroft.

“We couldn’t compromise the security of his disappearance, John. When people heard he was dead, they looked to you. We couldn’t have you seem even slightly convinced that he was alive, or you could have given it all away. I imagine my brother had other motives in not telling you. God knows he could sneak past me if he tried.”

“Jesus. This is just…”

“The media leak was done by Sherlock, I found out. I guess he got tired of waiting.” Lestrade chimed in tiredly. “Anderson here,” he glared, “seems to think that an anonymous press release packet and a hundred quid taped to it means ‘here, take it to the news! Don’t worry about a thing!’ He didn’t fully understand the weight of its contents. Didn't even look at them, actually.”

Anderson made a noise in protest.

“Shut up! Everybody shut up. Especially you, Anderson.”

“Bu—”

“SHUT UP.” John rubbed his temples. “Okay. It is just midnight, and I have a morning shift and an angry girlfriend and far too much to deal with right now. So I am going to go home. I am going to go to sleep. And in the morning this will maybe make more sense.”

“John, maybe you should—”

“SHUT UP. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. Good night.”

Then he was out of the building and into the cold autumn night. The black car pulled up by him, Anthea _or whatever her bloody name was_ popped her head out again. “You’re to have a lift home.”

“Piss off.”

John hailed a cab and melted into the back seat. And as he calmed, he felt a smile, of all things, tugging at the corners of his mouth.

* * *

 

 

 


	6. The Zombie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary meets Sherlock. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried to be funny, it's not really a strong suit of mine. But yeh.

A scream. John woke suddenly, on his feet in seconds. The sitting room. Gun. Out of the drawer, Into his hand. Out of the bedroom, into the most confusing scene John had witnessed in a long time.

Mary was brandishing a frying pan with one hand and throwing various objects with the other. Mrs. Hudson lay splayed on the floor. All hostile energy was directed toward the foreign presence in the room, namely Sherlock Holmes, who was attempting to block off the onslaught of _things_ flying at his head.

“John!” Roared the consulting detective. “Control this woman!”

“What the shit?!” screamed John back.

“JOHN IT’S A ZOMBIE” screamed Mary.

“DID YOU KILL MRS. HUDSON?” screamed John. “And Mary, stop, he’s not… he’s alive.”

“What!”

“No, I didn’t kill her, you massive idiot! She fainted!”

“Everybody, just calm down.”

Mrs. Hudson made a noise that sounded like a cat in heat. John lowered his gun.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He finally managed to Sherlock, who was doing his best to compose himself and look mysterious and brooding again.

“Obviously, John, I came to see you.”

“No, Sherlock, not obvious, because last I checked, I had made it very clear that we were not on good terms.”

“Excuse me!” interjected Mary. “Could somebody _please_ tell me what’s going on?”

“Oh, really excellent choice, John. What is she, thirty seven? Never married. Works with books, writes poetry—poorly—owns four cats, insecure about the size of her chin, desperately wondering when you’re going to propose. A real treasure.”

“Fuck you, you bastard. How the hell… that’s not even true.” Mary blushed deeply.

“I assure you, it is entirely.”

“Get out of my house, Sherlock. Just, get out.”

“Fine. I’ll return at a more opportune time, preferably one where you’re not entirely preoccupied by the positive relict you’re calling a girlfriend.”

“Or just don’t. Don’t return, ever.”

Sherlock stared at John intensely, paused as if to say something, and then thought better of it. He exited with a dramatic flourish of his coat.

“He looked at you like he wanted to eat you or something.” breathed Mary.

“What? No, no he didn’t. That’s just how he looks at people.”

“I’ve never seen anybody on earth stare at another human being that way, John. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I think Mrs. Hudson could use some help.”

John snapped to attention, running to Mrs. Hudson’s side. She was coming to.

“Mrs. Hudson? Do you know who I am?”

“John, dear, of course. I’m afraid I just had a little faint.”

“What day is it?”

“October the fifteenth, I believe.”

“Alright, close enough.”

“Was that… that wasn’t actually Sherlock, though, was it?”

“Um. Yes, it was. I suppose I have some explaining to do to both of you. You especially, Mary.”

“Damn right you do. I came over fully intending to chew you out, but then that,” she gestured towards the empty doorway, “happened.”

John resisted the urge to curl up in a ball and instead headed to the kitchen.

“I need a cup of tea. It’s something of a long story, and I still don’t quite get it myself.”

* * *

 

“So he just… comes back?”

“I guess so.”

“John, why were you so angry, then? I mean, he’s an absolute pig, but past that. He was your best friend.”

“I don’t… it was just… how could he leave me like that? And not say a thing? It was three years, Mary. I never…” John buried his head in his hands. A hand smoothed his shoulder.

“Look, John, I’m not saying you should forgive him. But you do need to talk to him.”

“I know.”

“You’re really late for your shift.”

“Dammit!” John looked at the time: 8:45. He had promised to be in at seven. “Can I meet you for coffee or something later?” he asked Mary.

“No, and not because I’m angry. I understand now, somewhat. But because you need some time to yourself to figure out what it is you really want.”

Mrs. Hudson coughed. “That sounds like it would be entirely for the best, loves. I’ll be just off.”

A few minutes later, John was alone in 221B. He put away the gun, texted an excuse to Sarah, and was nearly out the door when he paused and turned around.

_What it is you really want._

John Watson knew, in that moment, exactly what he wanted. He wanted his best friend back. He wanted to be irritated and annoyed and happy constantly. He wanted late night chases after various criminals through the streets of London. He wanted to be looked at like no one else on earth.

But he also wanted answers, and he would get them.


	7. The Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are each at an impasse; pitted largely against themselves.

Sherlock Holmes had never been one for apologies, and in that way he was quite unmoveable. Dying, he mused, had been so deliciously simple in that way. When you simply didn’t exist, there was nothing to be sorry for. In fact, Sherlock felt that it was really the world that should be apologising to him. He had left his life as he had known it in the most painful way possible, knowing full well he would likely never see anyone he knew ever again. With the discovery of Moriarty’s body, that had, of course, proved to be a false theory. But nonetheless, he was still without a home or and personal possessions. Mycroft had caged him into a cheap apartment that threatened imminent collapse at the slightest provocation. An attempt to test the boiling point of blood when bleached entirely and microwaved had proved nearly fatal.

If he was to be honest with himself, Sherlock was going fairly mad waiting for John to let him move back to their home. He was going fairly mad waiting for John, period. The three years had passed relatively quickly, hopping the globe and eliminating all trails Moriarty had left behind. It was upon his return to London that time really stopped for the detective, and warped slowly to make up for its previous velocity. Lestrade had yet to offer him a case, and the homeless network was proving to be largely preoccupied with trying to sell him heroin. He had little interest.

A knock at the door, and Sherlock nearly laughed at the challenge. So little to deduce in so small and monotonous a space as his current quarters.

The observations:

  1. Shadow, crack under the door.
  2. Stretch at approximately 4.3 inches, light outside casts a 47 degree angle at the back of the head.
  3. Theorise. Five feet, 7 inches tall.
  4. Tread. Soft, no previous indication. Sole: rubber.
  5. Someone with a domestic taste.
  6. Impression lowered, stocky, center of gravity low. Male. Military?
  7. Slight lean to the left side. Injury.
  8. The knock. Right handed. Three, not urgent, asking. This person was entirely aware the flat was occupied.
  9. Associations, how would a discreet address be acquired?
  10. John.



Sherlock opened the door. John entered, brushing past without introduction. Sherlock closed the door.

“Mycroft gave you the address.”

“Yes.”

Deduce: Why is John here?

  1. Mycroft. Emotional attachment. Severed.
  2. Fading sanguine ruddiness about the face. Walked a distance.
  3. Fingers: powder. Surgical gloves. Work.
  4. Further: bitten nails. Healing minimal. Stress. Small scratch, above wrist.
  5. Would have to inquire as to address, contact Mycroft. Predisposition to dislike. Personal urgency. Pocket: phone.
  6. Initiative. Unusual for his character. Suggestion.
  7. Anger? No. Facial muscles relaxed. Concedes. Tension, fading. Trouble?
  8. Nervous. Guilt. No signs of recent consumption. Scuff, left toe, drag.
  9. Cat hair, upper left shoulder. Stain, tea. Jumper was grabbed hastily. An earlier encounter.
  10. Mary had told John to talk to Sherlock, John had begrudgingly requested the address, he was here on his lunch break, he had been late to work, he had not eaten today, he was nervous. Question. He had a pressing question.



“I did it for you.” Sherlock offered.

“What?”

“You want to know why I never contacted you in my years away. You want to know what compelled me to leave you entirely alone. And I am answering. I did it for you.”

“That makes no sense, Sherlock.”

“Allow me to elaborate.”

“I haven’t got time; I’m meeting Mary for lunch.”

“No you’re not. She suggested you come here. You’re nervous, you want an easy out. First, hear what I have to say. Please.”

Silence.

“Fine.”

Sherlock took in the smaller man. He was tired, unhappy. Broken completely. He looked up at the detective not in any sort of admiration, and not in anger. In fact, Sherlock found himself, as he often did, at a loss as to what exactly John was thinking.

“I said fine, you’re just staring at me now.”

“I… of course. That day on top of Barts, I had been given an ultimatum. Jump or let you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson die. Mycroft had anticipated something similar, but he was too slow. I knew if I jumped and revealed myself to be alive, the chances of any of you being killed were incredibly high, so I had to remain in a state of nonexistence. I couldn’t afford the risk of any of your showing even the slightest hope that I was still alive, and so I remained anonymous. I assumed that with enough time, all would right itself. I never realised how deeply you would be affected.”

“Right, because you’re such a sodding great sociopath. You’d go through all that crock of shit to protect the people you care about, and then you’ll pretend you don’t understand what it means to care and leave them to rot for three years. I’m not _that_ dense, Sherlock.”

“John, it wasn’t just… it’s not that I…I was not myself for two of those years, John. I unearthed parts of my being that I had thought… I was very sick, for a long time. I killed indiscriminately. I was stabbed, once. Shot. And as I recovered each time, I did wish I had been able to come back home.”

John Watson was at a loss for words, as Sherlock Holmes seemed to be attempting to display emotion.

“If I stayed away, John, you could not be hurt. I comforted myself in that thought. So long as I was dead, there was no danger of losing you. I can’t understand how that matters to me, but it does.”

“And now you’re back.”

“I succeeded in my mission. My name is cleared. I have killed any and every lead I had that connected to Moriarty. And I want very much to come back home.”

“Home being 221B?”

“Yes. You know, I don’t even have my violin here. It seems somewhat unfair that you possess all that I claim to own.”

Something was very deeply satisfying about those words to John: _possess all that I claim to own_. Empowering.

“Did you miss me?”

“John—”

“No. Say it. Did you miss me?” John felt his pulse throbbing in his brain. There was something heady about the idea of having power over Sherlock Holmes.

“With every second of every day.”

Sherlock felt his mind nearly spasm at its remiss, at the utterance of such entirely sentimental sort of phrase.

John was suddenly struck by a sort of mental vignette: One in which he wound his fingers into the detective’s curls and threw him back against a wall, tasting the pale expanse of his neck, biting at the soft pout of his lower lip, kissing him with an urgency that…

The pair compensated for their perceived weaknesses in the only way they could both muster immediately:

“You look like you’ve gotten shorter.”

“I can’t propose to Mary.”

“What?”

“What?”

 


	8. The Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings, feelings, feelings say how you feel.

John was infinitely thankful for Lestrade’s excellent timing. Just as it had seemed that he and Sherlock were on the brink of another argument, they had both received a text:

 

_12:37 PM **GREG L** : Case you might like just came in. Maybe get the team back together? 43 West Abbington. -GL_

Lestrade received two replies:

_12:37 PM to: **GREG L:** On my way. -JW_

_12:37 PM to: **LESTRADE:** Expect me shortly. –SH_

 

“Yours from Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to know more about it before we go?”

“John, I will gladly deduce the location of a lost cat at this point. If it is a matter significant enough for Lestrade to require my consultation, I’ll take it. Here’s hoping it’s the murder of the century.”

With that, John found himself chasing the detective out of the flat and into a cab, where they spent the first five minutes or so in what John felt was a rather comfortable silence. It had been three years since the last time he’d been seated by Sherlock Holmes in a cab on the way to a case. It felt uncommonly good.

“You know she entirely expects you to.”

“What?”

“Mary. She expects you to propose.”

“I know she does. I was going to, actually, the other night. I was literally _this_ close to doing it, when your brother basically steals me out of the restaurant.”

“A restaurant, John? You’re so full of surprises.”

“I could do without the sarcasm, thanks. I don’t know, though. It felt like some sort of sign that I shouldn’t do it.”

“‘Signs’ are entirely illogical. Your brain is simply responding to a coincidence in the most honest way possible. You do not want to propose to Mary, and you now see that you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know why I told you about this. What would you know or care about proposals, anyway?”

“Exceedingly little, you are correct. But I am aware of the implications of marriage, or impending marriage. Mary would want to live with you or you with her, to start.”

“I suppose so.”

They fell back into silence. Sherlock stared out the window and into the cold afternoon, likely thinking about murder again, John noted.

“You can move back in.”

“Already have.”

“Pardon?”

“I texted Mycroft five minutes ago. He’s arranged for someone to take my things in.”

“I hadn’t given you permission five minutes ago!”

“And now you have. And here we are!”

The detective launched out the vehicle, turning up his collar and leaving John to pay.

As he counted out fourteen quid, John felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, washing clean his racing mind. What could possibly overpower his thoughts: his guilt at his strange fantasy earlier, his realisation about the proposal, the fact that his best friend really had missed him?

He realised what it was. For the first time in three years, John felt entirely and strangely happy.


	9. The Recompense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back. Sort of.

The case was simple, double homicide, straightforward. Sherlock breezed past the crime tape, entirely ignored the protests of Anderson and Donovan, and was into the building before John had even gotten up to the scene. He made the routine apologies.

“So he really is back?” Sally wanted to know. “There were rumours.”

“Yeah. I think they’re waiting to tell the papers on this one, though.” John served a cursory glare at Anderson. “And I should see what he’s up to.”

“You be careful, John. I didn’t trust him before and I don’t trust him now. Also, you’re not supposed to go in there yet.”

“Piss off, Sally.”

The scene proved entirely nonsensical to John once he got inside. Typical apartment, lower middle class. Large television, crappy chairs and furnishings. Dirty rug, coffee table in front of the television. On the coffee table lay the body of one of the two victims, a girl in her mid-thirties, maybe, who would have been pretty if not for the fact that her chest was entirely hacked apart. She appeared to be dressed as a sexy fairy. Sherlock was in the adjoining bedroom, examining victim two, a man with his head entirely blown off and the rest of his body clad in a pirate costume.

“Sherlock, what?”

“Quiet. Thinking.”

“Why are they dressed—?”

“John.”

“Sorry.”

He watched as the detective circled the room, jumping back occasionally at different angles, lifting objects here and there. John took the rudimentary medical measures on the bodies, determining time of death, presence of unusual substances, etc.

“What do you think, John?”

“I don’t know. A weird sex thing? The costumes are strange. Maybe the guy gets mad, stabs the woman, then shoots himself. They’re clean otherwise. The age difference is a little weird. Maybe she’s a prostitute?”

“Interesting theory, but entirely wrong. Look at the way he was shot, the angle the blood hits the wall. The pattern in the stab wounds.” He paused. “Got it.”

Lestrade entered.

“I see you two made it. You do realise you were supposed to wait for clearance to get in here, right? It’s a very sensitive—”

“You’ll be looking for a child.”

“What?”

“The killer. It’s the child of the happy couple.”

“That makes no sense, Sherlock. These two aren’t even together. It’s why I called you, we checked their backgrounds, no indication they were close at all. The woman, Emily Atz—.”

“She’s a waitress, mid-thirties. Has a child. former husband estranged. Assumption is that he was actually the father, but that’s clearly incorrect. Here, male, middle-aged, her former boss, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“The child is his, he tries to come back into her life, but he’s abusive, her job is on the line if she leaves him, he tries to compensate. He was taking her to an early Halloween party. The child is upset, takes his mother’s gun, shoots,” Sherlock crouched down and made a finger gun in the air just in front of the body. “See, the angle the blood hits the wall behind him. Account for strong recoil, the child hasn’t used a gun before. I’m guessing thirty calibre, but that one is a guess. Mother hears, runs in, sees, runs out, trips, pulls down a picture on the wall, gets out the door, child panics, follows, grabs a knife, stabs, she falls…” visibly excited, he exited the room quickly and indicated a spot on the floor in the living room that was speckled with blood, “the child manages to drag her up to the coffee table, realises what he has done, exits the scene, takes the weapons. Do you know where the child is? Did it cross nobody’s mind that a child clearly lives here and is not present?”

“We had someone heading to the school,” Lestrade checked his phone, “…and he’s not there today. Okay, well then. But there is no picture on the ground or anything, so that makes no sense as to her falling.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Use your eyes, Greg.”

They returned to the bedroom and Sherlock pulled out an armoire that was against the wall, revealing a picture fallen on the floor behind it. A photograph of a happy family, the woman from the coffee table, a man who was clearly not the one on the bed, and a boy who looked about seven.

“This was taken five years ago. You’ll be looking for this one,” he pointed at the kid, “Armed, assume dangerous, but I’d say it’s likely you can just talk him down. I’d look near the Gallery.”

“Why?”

“He’s fond of it. Takes comfort there. Look at his room.”

“That was brilliant.” breathed John, hardly realising he said it.

“Hardly. Simple deductions.” Sherlock looked at John’s clouding expression. “But thank you.”

“Hold on, we have no proof any of this is true.” Lestrade pointed out.

“Very little proof, yes, but you will. Find the boy. I imagine he won’t lie. Twelve years olds aren’t typically masterminding covert affairs.”

“I’ll… okay. I’ll get a team on it.” Lestrade mumbled a stream of commands into his two-way, and then clipped it back to his belt. “I assume this will end up checking out. And so I guess it’s good to have you two back in action.” he smiled.

“This was a dreadfully boring case, though. Hardly a three. Next time, I think I’d like to keep it at six or higher. Nothing that will take me less than ten minutes, hm?”

“You are an absolute arse.”

“Sherlock, I have to get back to the surgery. I was barely in today and they’ll have me working all night shifts if I don’t shape up.” John chimed in.

“Fine. I suppose I’d like to have my violin to myself for a while, anyway.”

The pair walked together out to the street.

“It really is good to have you back, you know.” John added quietly once they were away from the scene and attempting to hail their respective cabs. “I didn’t realise how much I missed being behind the yellow tape. Even if this wasn’t particularly exciting.”

Sherlock found himself once again really looking at his friend. The terrible jumper, the laugh lines around his brown eyes, and a smile. That was new. John was happy. He had made John happy, in some small way.

“I’ll see you at home.” he replied, sliding into the cab that had just pulled up. Why was the thought of John smiling making him feel so… so warm? As the cab pulled away, Sherlock allowed himself to relax slightly. He gave into the strange happiness that was surging through his body, and quite nearly hated himself for wishing John was still there with him, still smiling.

In his own cab, John finally allowed his thoughts to catch up with him. In the moment before Sherlock had departed, he had felt an unmistakable urge to kiss him goodbye. He shivered. It was entirely wrong, he thought, he was not gay and he loved Mary. He loved her very much.

_You do not want to propose to Mary, and you now see that you shouldn’t._

But that just meant he wasn’t ready for marriage, just wasn’t ready for such a big step. John was failing to convince himself. Suddenly, he was thinking of Sherlock again, wondering what those long fingers would feel like against his own face, wondering what his mouth would taste like, what his voice would sound like close against his ear, melodic and deep. John realised he was getting hard.

He willed his brain to shut up, shut up, shut up, bit his thumb until it drew blood, and repeated a mantra of ‘Not gay, not gay, Mary, not gay.’ until he reached the surgery.

 


	10. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later, and a bit of domestic bliss to break up the angstiness. (Is that even a word?) Jam/John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last installment for the day! Please read the following in a Schwarzenegger accent: I'll be back.

**TWO WEEKS LATER**

 

Toast exploded against the wall.

“THAT’S NOT JAM.”

“Obviously.”

“WHAT DID YOU PUT IN MY JAM JAR, SHERLOCK?”

“Your carrying on about jam is entirely disruptive to my thinking.” The detective pulled a violent chord on his violin. A second piece of toast made its way towards his head. “Really, how entirely mature of you, John. Throwing toast. Oooh, what’s next? Fighting over _things_?”

John muttered something vile and nearly inaudible and went to the refrigerator, searching amongst various jars and packages of body parts for the butter. He found it, examined it, and determined it untainted.

“John, phone.”

“Get it yourself. Not to mention, that is my phone. You broke yours. And it is literally five feet away from you. Just stretch.”

“Phone.”

As slowly and intentionally as possible, John retrieved the phone and handed it to Sherlock.

“Maybe you can learn to text and play that bloody thing at the same time.”

“Impossible to proficiently do both. I’ve tried.”

John returned to the table and his toast. A comfortable silence fell briefly, and then Sherlock began ‘playing’ again. The noise continued for the better part of an hour, until John had showered, shaved, put on a festive jumper, and was making to leave for work.

The screeching stopped. “Concentrated blood plasma.”

“Pardon?”

“In the jam jar.”

“Fucking hell.” John briefly considered vomiting, then decided against it. “Anything else before I leave?”

“Mary texted you. She wants to meet you for _dinner_.” Sherlock muttered, as though dinner was an incredibly unpleasant sort of disease. He tossed the phone to John, who caught it and placed it in his pocket.

“Alright. I’ll be back before then.”

There was no reply, as Sherlock had returned to the violin and was positively enlightening Beethoven’s 9th.

“No, please, don’t ever play nicely while I’m actually here. Just when I go.”

No response.

John smiled despite himself and went to work.


	11. The Addict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A synopsis of the past two weeks and the attempted return to 'normalcy' in 221B.

While it seemed that his life has returned to some degree of normalcy—could he really ever call it that?—John was aware that everything he knew was teetering in and out of balance, waiting to fall. It was waiting for a nudge, any excuse, and then it would be past its tipping point. This had become very obvious over the past two weeks.

The first day, he had returned home late to find Sherlock in a state of absolute panic. Never knowing the man to be one for any sort of emotion at all, John had panicked as well:

“Sherlock! Stop! What is it? Have you been poisoned?”

“ _johnwhereismydressingrobe”_

“What?!”

“WHEREISIT”

“Your… that’s what you’re so anxious about?”

“I have very few constants in my life, John, and everything seems to be in place, all my belongings are still here except for _my dressing robe_ and I need to know where it is.”

“It’s… I think it might be with Mycroft, we sent him a box with all the things you really used. Sentimental, see.”

“Of all illogical--! Of! Mycroft!”

“I’m sure he still has it.”

The rest of that evening had been spent tracking the older Holmes brother across London in search of the blue disaster.

Two days later, John’s demons caught up to him in the form of a full-blown sex dream. It was hazy when he woke up, but he remembered very clearly Sherlock’s form spread underneath him and biting down on the smooth skin of his neck, feeling him spasm and moan as he was so marked. Upon awakening, John found his erection would not go away and he had tried to think only of Mary as he masturbated. When he finally came, face buried in his pillow, it was not Mary’s name on his lips.

The dreams had become a somewhat regular occurrence since then. It was beginning to travel heavily into the everyday as well. No matter how constantly infuriating the detective was, John still found something strangely arousing in the way Sherlock steepled his hands or flipped up a collar. He resigned himself to thinking that maybe the dreams were just a release of nervous energy. Relief at having his friend back manifesting itself sexually. They were only dreams, after all, just the results of an overactive mind. He was terrified that somehow, in the way he had, Sherlock would _know._ He would figure it out and see right through John and what then?

Day to day, however, John was doing a fairly decent job of keeping his sexual identity crisis internalised. Mary had been angry at his letting Sherlock move back in so quickly, and he found himself at her flat more often than he had before. On the fifth day, she had nearly pulled him through the door and threw him onto the couch.

“John, do you know when we last had sex?”

“Uhm, no. No I do not.”

“Almost a month ago.”

“That’s… that’s a long time.”

“Yes it is.” she said into his neck, suddenly dropping down and tearing at the button of his jeans. “I think we should remedy that.”

Then her hand was on his cock, separated only by a thin layer of cotton. The hand moved slowly but very firmly up and down, anticipating a rise in response. None came. A minute passed. Two.

“Jesus, am I really that uninteresting?” she finally asked, pulling herself back up to eye level.

John could feel himself turning red. He had never before in his life been one to misperform.

“Mary, I’m sorry. It must be all the… all the new stuff going on. Maybe we should—”

Mary clearly already felt badly. “I understand. Shouldn’t have just jumped you like that. I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t want to be one of those couples that never do anything, you know? It’s not even six months yet, and we’re one dry. That doesn’t seem right.”

“No, I agree. Entirely.”

They had kissed then, and eventually John’s hands found their way downwards to Mary. After a while she had come tight against him, trembling. John felt nothing. Nothing at all.

On the eighth day, John had realised that Sherlock was far jumpier than he had ever been. His eyes were red; the muscle under his left eye was spasming distractingly, he couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“Sherlock, are you alright? Have you eaten anything in the past week at all?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Not a problem.” His voice was high, clipped.

“You’re very clearly not.” John had crossed the room to where Sherlock was pacing. “I’m saying this from a medical perspective. Sit down.”

As the detective complied, the sleeve of his robe hiked up and for a moment John thought his arm was disfigured. Then he looked again. Not disfigured, but absolutely covered in nicotine patches. John yanked the sleeve the rest of the way up.

“What the hell is this, Sherlock?! I understand how you need one or two, but this isn’t healthy.”

The detective pushing his sleeve back down, glaring.

“Well, _doctor_ , in the timeframe in which I was not here it was often…” he trailed off. “I’m in withdrawal.”

“From… cigarettes? Sherlock, you’ve done this before, it’s not—”

“ _Not bloody cigarettes, John._ Five years ago I was constantly abusing any narcotic I could possibly buy until Mycroft intervened; and I found myself, in my recent travels, often exposed to things that…” he trailed off again, his eyes entirely distant.

“We have to get some of these off your arm. Your blood can’t handle this.”

Two hours later, Sherlock was down to four patches and so pale that John wanted to admit him.

“I can handle this. Mind over matter.” was the protest.

Then the vomiting had started, and even the genius of Sherlock Holmes could not save him from his body rejecting itself. John had helped him to the bathroom and sat by his side, murmuring reassurances that he was sure the detective would have found insulting under any other circumstance. Eventually, he coaxed Sherlock into drinking a healthy amount of water and led him to bed. Protests continued weakly up and until his head hit the pillow, and then he looked up at John quietly.

“I know you don’t want to, but sleep a bit.”

“John… thank you. Really.”

“It’s not a problem, Sherlock. I’ll phone over Sarah’s and see if I can’t get something to help you get through this. I can’t imagine how it must feel.”

To the surprise of both parties, a pale hand reached out and grabbed one of John’s.

“No, really,” Sherlock stared up at him so intensely John felt his heart nearly turn over. “Thank you.”

 

Now two weeks in and past that incident, John was trying to feel relieved. Sherlock seemed decidedly more stable, the experiments had started up again in full force, and Mary still found it in her heart to talk to him. He would just ignore the fact that he seemed to only be able to become aroused when he thought of his flatmate. Unimportant. “ _This too shall pass”._


	12. The Somnambulist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past three years and the past two weeks from Sherlock's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little wordy, but I feel like explanations are necessary. The next chapter will be more fun, I promise. ;)

John was not the only one who felt the strange shift in the energy in 221B. Although his demeanour revealed nothing, Sherlock Holmes was fighting his own inner demons. Initially, he had imagined his return to life would be simple—idealism, he realised now, was an unbearable and destructive trait that would be best eliminated.

            Sherlock’s first year away from life had affected him deeply. He had abandoned sleep, ate only as necessary for survival, and had taken up smoking again. The spiral continued downwards, and he found himself back to relying on the absolute rush of energy and the heightening of his mental powers that came only with a cocaine high. But it was not the way the drug made everything so brilliantly clear that had really drawn him to it this time, no. It was the strange sort of bliss that fell over him as it coursed through his bloodstream; the sudden relief that if he woke up with a knife in his back in a city he had never been before, it would be _okay._ When he felt most tired and most alone and wished unreasonably that John was there, he was only ever a moment away from being _okay._

            When his heart had briefly given out in the second year, Sherlock knew it was time to stop. He compensated with cigarettes, packs a day, nicotine patches and any painkiller he could buy. He would scratch at his own wrists when it got to be too much. It was never enough.

Often, when a trail ran cold and he lay sleepless and sick, he thought back to the last time he had seen his only friend from the roof of St. Bart’s. How desperately he had wanted to say something more before the jump, and how it crazed him to not know what that something was! It lingered on the tip of his tongue: a sentiment he could not understand.

Near the end of the third year, he had received a message from Mycroft in the form of a scrawl on the back of a package of menthols:

_Final leads isolated. If you so wish, you may return. –MH_

Then he had thought only of John. Then he was back in London, in one of his brother’s insufferably posh cars, then into a suffocating small flat. He deduced patterns, broke into the Yard, and cleared his name. Smoked a final cigarette as luxuriously as possible, applied three patches, and resolved to quit. John hated smoking. Mycroft arranged a meeting, and Sherlock prepared for anything.

John’s fist connecting with his face was the only confirmation he needed. Sherlock Holmes had been missed, nearly as dearly as he had missed his friend in return.

But still, normalcy refused to come. Even when he was comfortably home in 221B, even when he had slept a full night for the first time in years, a certain anxiety lingered. He made a list of deductions, observations; facts:

  1. John’s girlfriend made him feel a sense of anger he had scarcely known possible.
  2. The nicotine patches were failing him as a substitute for a high.
  3. When he looked at John, he ceased to be able to make deductions.
  4. He was curious as to whether or not blood plasma could be concentrated and gelatinised, then perhaps used as a means of achieving perfect cardiac arrest in a victim when injected.
  5. If Lestrade didn’t call with a 6 or above soon, he would find a case on his own.
  6. Updating the blog would likely be the best way to alert the world as to his presence.
  7. If John proposed to Mary, he would lose his only reason for living.
  8. John didn’t love Mary.
  9. John was acting strangely when they came in close physical proximity.
  10. He knew what he had wanted to say before the jump.



 

For the first time in his life, Sherlock realised he felt love. Was in love? Needed more data.

He hated it. Upon his final repulsive conclusion, he had put another nicotine patch on his arm. Then two more.

Three days later, the patches failed completely and two years of withdrawal caught up to the detective. For a period of time—hours, maybe—all he could remember was the feeling of John’s hands on his shoulders, his voice comforting. Detestable.

His body was not just in withdrawal from a lack of stimulants. He was rejecting emotion, trying to purge himself clean.

It didn’t work. For the rest of the week, even the thought of John made his heart ache with a desire he could neither fulfil nor ignore. 


	13. The Rapture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up.

            Once John had returned from work, sidestepped his flatmate who was performing some sort of dissection/crossbreeding between a digestive biscuit and a snail in the kitchen, and cleaned up all remnants of the morning’s toast, he allowed himself to breathe. He had agreed to meet Mary at Speedy’s and retired to his room to get ready and decide on a jumper that most said “I’m sorry, and also not gay.”

He was adjusting his collar in the mirror when he noticed in the reflection Sherlock, standing behind him. He whipped around.

“Christ, Sherlock, you could knock. What do you want?”

The detective stepped closer, and John was afraid his own racing heart might be audible in the small room. The expression on Sherlock’s face was unlike any John had seen on him before, his eyes grey and burningly intense.

“Don’t go, John.”

“I’m…” His words were briefly caught in his throat. “I’ll only be out a bit. I’ve been completely terrible to Mary.” Suddenly, John understood completely what his girlfriend had expressed upon her first encounter with Sherlock. His gaze was positively _carnivorous_.

“Or,” Sherlock suggested, “Or you could stay in. With me.”

They were inches apart now. John’s hands floated up almost involuntarily to rest on his flatmate’s chest. A barrier, however weak.

“What are we doing?” he breathed.

“Not…entirely… sure.”

Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and kissed him with a sort of crushing desperation. John felt himself give in immediately, parting his lips and taking the detective’s in his own. He sucked and bit desperately at the mouth that until then had only haunted his dreams, flicking out his tongue to taste what he had only imagined. It felt raw, hungry, like he could never be close enough.

A low moan escaped Sherlock’s throat, and they both pulled away abruptly. John felt himself gasping for breath. Sherlock raised a hand to his swollen lips in awe of the sensation.

“No.” John finally managed, running out of the room and out of the apartment as fast as his still shaking legs would carry him.

Back in 221B, Sherlock was so hard he couldn’t bring himself to think. Electricity from the kiss pulsed through every part of his body, his mind reeling wildly to try to place and make logic of what it had never before experienced.

“John.” He whispered, collapsing to the floor. 


	14. The Summit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary DTR.

“I know it’s something to do with Sherlock.”

John focused back on reality, Mary’s voice tearing him from his thoughts.

“Look, I’m being as patient as I can, John. But, I mean… two weeks ago I really thought you were going to ask me to marry you. And now suddenly you don’t seem interested in me at all. I get it; you need time to get used to having your mate back. But it’s not just that, it’s everything. You just feel so different, lately. And I know it’s something to do with Sherlock; and maybe I’m being stupid, but it really does hurt me.”

John managed a sip of lukewarm coffee. He resisted spitting it back out; Mary had sugared it.

“I’m sorry Mary. I couldn’t expect you to understand what it’s like with him, and—”

“Is he gay?”

“Sorry? Oh, I… not entirely sure. I didn’t think he had any sort of real interest in anyone until… never mind.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “If I might be very honest here, John?”

“Of course.”

“Sherlock Holmes is very clearly the sort of arse who goes to great lengths to hide his feelings, but I have no doubt he does, in fact, feel. He’s no sociopath; he’s just vain and a bit insecure. I know how people like him work. Remember, I worked in Psych before the library. And Sherlock is clearly obsessive, possessive, and very stubborn. But I think he cares for you very much. I think you know that, too.”

“Mary—”

“Listen to me. I think, in your own way, you love him, John, and I think it will kill you if he leaves again.”

“But he’s not leaving, Mary, he’s—”

“He will only wait so long for you, John. If you want what we have here, between you and me, to continue, he will leave.”

“I can’t make that sort of choice. But I love you, really.”

“At the risk of sounding melodramatic, that’s not enough. I can’t wait forever either. Now it’s becoming pretty damn clear to me that you’ve already made a choice, even if you don’t realise it.”

John could think of nothing to say.

“I don’t know what happened between the two of you recently, but it is really obvious that something is wrong. That’s why you were so upset when we came in. So here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to finish my coffee, and you’re going to go fix whatever went wrong and then live very happily without me. I’m saying this because I do love you, too, very much. I think you deserve all the bloody happiness in the world, John Watson. And I can’t give that to you.”

She was crying, just enough to make John hate himself as he obeyed after a moment and walked away from the one thing that had ever kept him grounded.

John looked back through the glass outside to where Mary was sitting. He looked at what could have been, and felt strangely as though some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The guilt then set in quickly.

Love, he decided, was really fucking awful. 


	15. The Division

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly an 8.

Nothing was quite as effective at clearing the mind of Sherlock Holmes as a serial killer. For an hour after he had kissed John, he had found himself in the throes of sensations he had been unable to will away. Eventually, he had found himself practically grinding against the floor beneath him, unable to think of anything but an illogical need to have John pressed against him again, his mouth wanting and taking in turn. The desire was almost unbearable until he finally came, the release more brilliantly powerful than any high Sherlock had ever felt.

He had cleaned himself up afterwards, both violently angry at himself for doing something so _basic_ , so _instinctive_ , and unbelievably confused as to why he wished John would come home and do it all over again.

The absence of his flatmate had never been as striking to him as it was then; before it had simply been a fact. John would leave to go to the surgery, or to meet his girlfriend, or to buy milk, and that was life. But now the detective found his senses screaming, wondering why there was no man seated at the kitchen table or cleaning sulphuric acid off the counter or typing on his laptop while wearing one of his entirely ridiculous jumpers.

The buzzing of a cell phone brought Sherlock back to reality, and he read the delivered text:

_8: 14 PM **GREG L:** Sherlock not answering, is his phone broken? Case just in, maybe an 8. If interested, come to the yard. –GL _

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was following sirens and tracking a serial killer. His feelings became gloriously secondary. John did not; could not possibly matter.

 

He wished John were there with him.

* * *

 

The flat was empty once John had steeled himself and entered. He was not sure if he was relieved or worried. His phone, however, was switched on and glowing up from the table where he had forgotten it in his haste before. It was still open to a message, one from Lestrade promising an 8. That explained where Sherlock was, then. There was another one in his inbox, he saw, more recent and unread. He opened it:

_8:18 PM **GREG L:** Tell Sherlock not to track him without my go. Possibly linked to JM. Meet at the yard first, security briefings important. Do not proceed w/o backup –GL _

_8:52 PM to: **GREG L:**_ _did Sherlock meet you @ yard? He’s not here. got to my phone before me. –JW_

 _8:52 PM_ **_GREG L:_** _N_ _ever showed. come down asap, if he’s tracking on his own he’s in danger. –GL_

 _8:53 PM to: **GREG L:**_ _on my way_

John sprinted to his room and fumbled his gun out of its drawer. Then for the second time that night he found himself running out of 221B on account of the man he could not bring himself to hate. Adrenaline coursed through his veins.

 _Sherlock,_ he thought to himself, _what have you done to me?_


	16. The Connoisseur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty took careful measures to make sure the dead stay dead. Sherlock discovers this the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit violent, be warned. Also it's 2 AM and I did not edit or fact-check it *at all*. Carry on.

“Mr. Holmes, glad to see you’re finally wit’ us.”

Acclimate. Cold, damp. Not in accordance with seasonal climate. Smell, blood, rot, mould. Underground? Likely. Listen. A rumble, dust falls. Breathing, heavy. A train, and the assailant. Feel. Wrists bound, hanging. Rope, damp, tied unprofessionally. Possible concussion, blunt trauma, poorly wielded. Pull, metal suspension.  Focus. Male, emphysema, mid-fifties, Irish. Shifts gait often, injury, two cracked ribs, recent. Unstable, untrained, motivated.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The man standing across from him smiled toothily, revealing yellowed teeth. His clothes were dirty, old, spattered in blood, but lacking wear. He held a paring knife in his hands.

“Y’know, I didn’t think it would be so easy to get t’you. Guess you’re more’n a wee bit out of practise, eh?”

Suddenly, a number of things became very clear to the detective:

  1. The man in front of him was the killer he had been tracking.
  2. He was in an abandoned fallout catacomb branching off from the Underground.
  3. Upon discovering this place, he had been hit in the back of the head and knocked unconscious.
  4. The victims had been intended for his own discovery.
  5. He had been correct in assuming this was a trap.
  6. The trail he had left behind had been subtle, and by his calculations it would likely be twenty-four minutes before he was found.
  7. The man in front of him had been hired, and hired specifically to find him.
  8. The man in front of him would stab him in the heart and then flay him open in short order, if the killings were to be consistent.
  9. This was one of the few times where perhaps he should have listened to Lestrade.
  10. The man in front of him was one of Moriarty’s.



“Indeed. To be honest, I’m even somewhat disappointed in myself. This trap should have become obvious to me shortly after noting the characteristic rubble and mould cultures on the bottom of all three of your previous victim’s shoes. Nobody is that careless in covering their tracks.”

“Hm. Well, a little late for that now. I’ve been told t’ take extra care in killing ye.”

“Told by Moriarty?”

“Yessir. He took some extra measures t’ make sure if ye turned up dead, you stayed dead. ‘Fraid you didn’t do a good enough job dyin’ the first time.”

“How much are you being paid? Enough, clearly, for that new watch you’re wearing. And enough to cover the medical bills for yourself.”

“Not at liberty to say, but I can tell ye ah’ve been assured the pay is double any counter-offer.”

“Naturally.”

“It’s been a good talk, Mr. Holmes, but ah do have to kill ye now.”

Time. He needed time.

“Oh, but really, do you? I submit to you a slightly different proposal, in both of our interests. It seems incredibly likely that I will not be found here, and you will most absolutely get away with murder under these circumstances.”

“I spose.”

“And your former employer was much like myself, a man of logic who would appreciate another logician. So my submission is this: in order to appease both of us in our deaths, don’t begin immediately by stabbing me in the chest and _then_ hacking me to bits to be scattered around a planned crime scene. Instead, begin with non-lethal incisions and continue in that manner until I die. It would be both unnecessarily cruel, thus appeasing your employer, and it would provide useful information to you on pain thresholds and human resilience for use in future murders.

“Tha’ don’t seem logical t’ me. You’re still dying, but in an extra terrible way. Why would y’ want that? Ye stand nothing to gain.”

“I realise that, but I do not particularly fear death. I’d be interested to experience it slowly, simply for my own peace of mind. And logically, you lose nothing from that approach.”

He had now stalled twenty minutes from the estimated time he had been knocked unconscious to the present. There was, of course, the possibility that his presumed saviours would have all simply acted with every degree of their normal stupidity and not realised the highly obvious clues in front of them. There was a four to one chance that he had been _too_ subtle.

“You really are some sorta sicko. But ah can’t say you’re entirely wrong there. Always felt it was a bit too nice of me t’ let the buggers die so easy.”

“Well, then, it seems quite clear that you should attempt to embody the rather hellish implications of your career as fully as possible. It seems only right that if you’re going to mutilate your victims that you do it while they’re still alive to appreciate it.”

Twenty-two minutes. Had be bought time, or just a more painful death?

The man stepped closer now, and placed the blade softly across Sherlock’s exposed upper arm. He smiled once more at the man tied helplessly in front of him and then pressed down, drawing a rapid stream of blood. The detective bucked against his holds, a strangled noise escaping his lips.

“And how are ‘y appreciatin’ it so far, Mr. Holmes?”

The knife travelled down slightly and bit in again. Sherlock could see spots swimming before his eyes, and bit back the urge to yell. The first cut had been deep, maybe too deep. The blood loss was overwhelming. He closed his eyes and waited for the knife to descend again. It never did.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and the killer’s head burst open. Brain matter and skull projected in all directions.

“SHERLOCK.”

And then they were there, Lestrade and a SCO team and somehow John, who was lowering his gun and running towards him. The ropes came undone and Sherlock felt himself falling down, down, and then being caught in very familiar arms.

“You stupid fucking idiot, why the bloody _fuck_ would you just up and after some psychopath?”

Was John crying? Unclear. His vision was swimming. He felt himself lowered gently to the ground, felt a hand putting pressure on his wounds.

“Left… a trail.”

“I bloody _know_ you left a damn trail, you quite literally dropped pennies from the Yard to the crime scene to here. Where did you even get so many pence? Don’t answer that. You’re hurt. One of you stop _staring_ and get me some gauze before he bleeds out right fucking here.” An emergency medical kit was procured. Somebody said something about a med team arriving.

“John, I—”

“Shut up. Relax. This is going to hurt like a bastard.”

Peroxide. It did.

“John, I love you.”

There was a silence for a solid minute. Lestrade coughed.

“You’re delirious.”

He was. Blackness overtook him; welcomed him like an old friend. 


	17. The Frission

John finally got Sherlock in bed. Not in the way Lestrade now assumed, which involved a definite lack of clothing. Rather, he had pulled some strings and gotten him released from St. Bart’s and then managed to drag the highly sedated detective out of a cab and into his bed.

“hnnnmmphhhggggJooohn.”

“If you don’t stop trying to talk and lay down I swear, Sherlock, I will personally reopen all two hundred of your stitches.”

“mmmmmbut, but, immsorry.”

John regarded his best friend, who looked significantly less menacing than usual when recumbent under a quilt with his eyes half-closed and mouth inadvertently open. He felt strangely compelled to smooth the dishevelled hair off the pale expanse of Sherlock’s forehead. He settled on moving one lock to the side, fingers nearly tingling on contact.

“Mary and I broke up, you know. That’s what I was doing while you were out getting yourself killed.”

“Nnnmmmly?”

“Uh, yes, I think? Look, we need to talk, but we can do that in the morning when you’re not completely off your arse on morphine. In the meantime… I’m not mad at you, Sherlock. I want to be, but I can’t. Okay? I’m just too happy that you’re alive. So instead of apologising, just don’t ever, ever, _ever_ pull some stupid-arse shit like that again. I can’t lose you twice, alright? I just can’t.”

Sherlock made a noise that could have either been a tribble imitation or an “okay”.

 _Fuck it all_ , John decided, and he smoothed back the remainder of the curls. He was greeted by a happy sigh.

“Go to sleep, you bastard.”

* * *

 

John had just reassured and turned away a worried Mrs. Hudson and was returning to his tea when Sherlock emerged from his room.

“Morning?” John offered.

“So you really did end things with that harpy?”

“Pleasant as always, I see. Mrs. Hudson was just up worrying over you.”

“I’m quite obviously fine. My arm likely won’t regain its full potential for usage for some time, but beyond that…”

“Beyond that what?”

“Do you… do you think I could have some toast?”

John tried to conceal his shock.

“Uh, yes, of course, yes. I’ll just make some. Sit down or something.” He crossed to the kitchen and began the ritual of applying bread to heat. “It’s probably because you lost so much blood that you’re hungry. A glucose drip only does so much.”

“Probably. It’s still incredibly inconvenient. I fail to see how anyone could spend more than a second considering breakfast.”

“Well, not everybody is an android like yourself who needs only rudimentary nourishment.” John quipped, placing the toast on a plate and delivering to the table. Sherlock ate it uncomfortably, as though the toast had betrayed him greatly.

“I would have taken that as a sort of compliment a week ago.”

“It’s okay to be human, Sherlock. We all do it.”

The pair sat in silence for a while, Sherlock’s eyes distant in thought.

“John, I can’t understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“Why… why I can’t think around you. Why every time I see you I find it absolutely maddening. When you aren’t here I want you to be here. When I see you with Mary it hurts as though… And I want to touch you, nearly all the time, even when there’s absolutely no reason for it, and it’s entirely illogical. That I’m so clearly susceptible to this basic sort of _feeling_ and… and _wanting_ , it’s—the things that you do to my heart, John Watson, are just—”

And then he said nothing, because John was kissing him, intense and wanting but still nervous, still asking. Sherlock reached out to grab a handful of jumper and pulled John closer, standing them both up while keeping contact. John ran a hand up to tangle itself in Sherlock’s hair and let the other wander to the small of his back, pressing them together. He found his mouth drifting down to Sherlock’s exposed neck, biting slightly and getting a low groan in response.

And then he felt himself lifted up and onto the table, a plate hitting the floor, and Sherlock’s lips moving hungrily against his own and a tongue probing out gently. He became aware of the detective grinding down on him, and he moaned into the lips against his, his hands moving desperately to tear at the clothing that was so rudely keeping him from the body beneath it. He had a need to pull, to take, to _consume_ every bit of the man who was now reaching a hand down and pressing agonisingly lightly on his erection through his trousers, and it was almost too much…

There was a knock at the door.

The two disentangled themselves and stood up like a shot. John attempted to tuck his jumper back into his trousers and realised it was entirely obvious that he was aroused. Sherlock faired slightly more poorly, a red mark forming brightly on his neck and his hair making him look entirely shagged. John stood behind the table and hoped it provided sufficient cover, and Sherlock dived onto the couch and crossed his legs, attempting to mould his hair into some semblance of normalcy.

“Uh, come in?” John called, it being clear that either of them moving to answer it directly would prove embarrassing. The door opened, and Mycroft strolled in, umbrella in hand and scoff on his face.

“Afternoon.” He greeted coolly. His eyes took in the general state of dishevelment of the flat’s occupants and widened slightly. “I see you’re alive.” He directed at his brother, who was glaring in a way that would have made anyone else frightened.  “When I helped you come back from the dead, I had been hoping—foolishly, I now see—that you might attempt to remain on this side of the fray.”

“I would have thought you would have swooped in to save me, Mycroft. I know how dear it is to you that I don’t _actually_ die and force you to get your hands dirty cleaning up.”

Mycroft sniffed indignantly and glanced over at John. “I suppose I should thank you for being absolutely daft enough to save this one.” He indicated the younger Holmes. “And I should also let you know that you’re incredibly fortunate the murderer raised his knife at you before you shot him in self-defence, with a carefully registered firearm.” John nodded shakily.

“Thank you.”

“Nothing to be thankful for. Well, this has been a lovely chat, gentlemen. All seems quite in order. I’ll leave now and you can get back to shagging.”

“We’re not—”

“John, please, don’t be dull. _Everybody_ knows.”

 Mycroft hefted his umbrella haughtily and made his exit. 


	18. The Establishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John DTR, more or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now it's gonna get nice and fluffy and then smutty guys.

Once the adrenaline had settled some and John felt like he could think again, he crossed the room to where Sherlock was tensed on the couch.

“I, ah, we should probably talk about things.”

Sherlock acknowledged him with a burning stare.

“Firstly, that I am not gay. Unless, well, I’m sure it seems redundant, but I have never before in my life—”

“John, until I had met you I had never had any capacity for normal emotion and absolutely no drive for any sort of sexual activity. My romantic attentions, apparently, do not contrive gender as strongly as they focus on you. So I am not, as you say it, _gay_. I am simply attracted to you. I thought that would be clear, considering the events of the past day. Perhaps you simply feel similarly.”

“That, too, I mean, what you said the other day. I just figured it was blood loss. You did apologise, sort of.”

“I had never been able to place exactly what it is I feel for you, John. On the roof of St. Bart’s, three years ago, I had wanted desperately to tell you something before it was too late, but I could not place what that something was. And I think it was the thought of never seeing you again yesterday that reminded me of what it was, and so I said it to you for fear you might never know. I do not fear death, I do not feel remorse, and I am a foreigner to terror. My moral compass is exceedingly blunt, and the only sort of happiness I experience typically comes at the expense of others. However, for you alone, what I feel defies all classification but that of love. It manifests itself emotionally, and regrettably physically. It is the reason I returned from the dead, and it is the reason we are having this conversation as opposed to me avoiding you at all possible costs. It is illogical, and I completely understand if it deters you, but I do love you.”

John scratched his head awkwardly, attempting to break Sherlock’s unwavering gaze. He shifted uncomfortably. “You understand if I need, uh, some time? To get used to this idea?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Sherlock jumped up suddenly. “I never intended to make you feel as though you had to make any sort of commitment. It’s highly important to me that our dynamic remains outwardly unchanged. You make a very valuable partner.”

“Right, well, it’s important to me too. Right.”

“You have jam just by your nose, you realise?” John coloured and wiped at his face.

“I think I’ll just update the blog, then, on the serial killer lead.”

Sherlock was no longer listening, and had found his way across the room to his chair and violin. John contemplated him silently. Even in a blue robe, with hair a mess and an arm bandaged beyond recognition, he radiated a sort of power that John couldn’t help finding ridiculously attractive. His neck was starting to bruise slightly, standing out sharply against the alabaster skin. And it was his own brand, John mused. He had the ability to take Sherlock Holmes for his own. He squelched the urge to cross the room and mark him again. Maybe he wasn’t gay, but he sure as hell was when it came to the world’s only consulting detective. He opened the laptop to start a new blog entry.

“How’s this for a title: The Penniless Hire?”

“Creative.”

* * *

 

“I’m going out.” John pulled his leather coat on over a jumper and cast a glance at his roommate, who was once again filling a jam jar with what looked approximately like oil. He was carefully managing to not spill any on his crisp purple dress shirt. “Why are you dressed? I didn’t think you did that unless you had to.”

“Because I’m going with you.”

“What?”

“Unless I’ve made a terribly wrong deduction, which I haven’t, you’re going to see a film. You had originally intended to take Mary, bought the tickets in advance, but now she will obviously not be joining you. As such, you have a bottle of scotch hidden under your jacket in hopes it will make the film more enjoyable as you watch it alone. However, you have a second ticket, and I will be accompanying you.”

“Oh, and I’m sure you just figured all that out by looking at my shoes or something.”

“Don’t be stupid. I watched you buy the tickets three days ago, and I watched you put the scotch in a paper bag five minutes ago.”

“Right. Well, I don’t see why you’d want to come with me. Have you ever even been to the cinema before?”

“…I went once, as a child.”

“What did you see?”

“As I recall there were… apparitions. And a giant marshmallow.”

“ _Ghostbusters?!_ ”

“Even thinking about it is making me incredibly bored.”

“Then why would you want to come to this? It’s a bloody Bruce Willis reboot.”

“I haven’t the slightest who that is, but I want to come because _you’ll be there_ , John. And should it still prove unpleasant, then _scotch_ will be there.”

John blushed. “Well, let’s go, then.”

Sherlock dropped a nail into the jam jar which met the liquid with a disconcerting hiss, and then applied coat, scarf, and gloves as he swept towards the door.

“Sherlock, is this… is this a date?”

The detective finished tying his scarf and looked at his flatmate. “Do you want it to be?”

“I think so.”

“Then it is.”

And rather unexpectedly, Sherlock took John’s hand as they walked out of 221B together. 


	19. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock attempt to go on a date. It ends up being spicier than either initially expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah this is where the sexy parts start

Having never experienced one before, Sherlock Holmes was at a complete loss as to how exactly a _date_ worked. He recalled a time when he had been a teenager, and he had found himself at a coffeehouse with an exceedingly nervous and pimply girl mummy had seen fit to force him out with. The rest of that day was a blur, but he did recall having a hot beverage thrown rather indecently at his face. He had observed couples for quite some time, however, and felt that there were a certain number of gestures that had to be taken in order to constitute an outing as a date. The first was egregious physical contact, which he was now doing in the form of holding John’s hand. It was uncomfortably pleasant.

They walked closely side by side, arms sandwiched together, and from a distance it was hard to tell that they were holding hands. But they were, and Sherlock felt a strange urge to never let go. They conversed normally, fluidly, as though they were not in immediate contact, but their conversation was supplemented by the warmth of a palm against his glove and the occasional subconscious squeeze of contentment between interlocked fingers. As they approached the theatre, John let go. Sherlock could scarcely help frowning.

“I’m just afraid that I might see somebody I know.”

Sherlock sighed. “Of course, discretion.”

“Nothing personal.”

“Why would I take it personally?”

“I don’t know.” John smiled up so endearingly that Sherlock felt as though he might melt. He compensated by trying to think of the atomic mass of krypton, which was evading his memory.

“83.798 units.”

John raised an eyebrow and led the way inside. It smelled of popcorn, artificial butter, and sweat. People stood in groups, loitering or hurrying or queuing in lines. The temptation to analyse was astonishing. Sherlock gave in:

  1. School kids, prep, two a couple, two who should be a couple, one who got the sympathy invitation. Parental statuses—divorced, divorced, married, unhappily married, orphaned.
  2. Couple, fighting, female cheating, together three months. IT tech and schoolteacher. Estimated time until separation: thirty five minutes.
  3. Girl, seventeen, runaway, parents worried, no money, sneaking into her third film of the day.
  4. Family, middle-class—



 

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“Stop … observing things and come on.”

Sherlock was momentarily peeved, but then he felt a hand take his and his mind cleared completely.

“What…?”

“I don’t see anybody I know. Let’s go, or we’ll miss the previews.”

“I was under the impression that previews are something like the bane of all existence, if the conversations in here are to be any sort of indicator.”

“I like them.”

Sherlock took note.

* * *

 

Within five minutes of screen time, John could tell it was going to be a terrible flick. The theatre had been nearly full once he had dragged Sherlock inside, but they had found acceptably secluded seats all the way in the back. John reached for the bottle under his jacket to find it missing. A glance to his side revealed Sherlock was making good headway on it already.

“You could share,” he whispered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow deviously and passed it over.

“I think there’s very little chance anything could be gained from this experience sober.” came the reply. Ten minutes later, John was feeling pleasantly buzzed and becoming highly aware of a gloved hand resting on his thigh. He turned to the right to find Sherlock’s face inches away.

“Are you finding this as predictable as I am, John?”

“Um,” replied John cleverly. The hand was moving upwards towards very sensitive areas.

“Really, I think even _you_ could write something more artful.”

John was unsure if he was being complimented or insulted, but he was sure that he was extremely turned on. Unable to resist, he leaned up and kissed Sherlock, a hum of contentment thankfully muffled by an explosion in the film. He intended to pull away, but found his bottom lip being quite firmly bitten. That wouldn’t do. He nipped back and allowed himself to taste the detective’s mouth fully. The hand was quite suddenly directly on his erection, moving teasingly up and down. He gasped so loudly he was afraid somebody might notice, but all other eyes remained fixed on the screen or their popcorn.

John wound his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s head, bringing him as close as he could, resisting the urge to just climb across the seat and mount him completely. He let his mouth move across the sculpted jawline, up to the temple, and then down to the throat still deliciously marked from earlier. The hand in his lap was working some sort of rhythmic magic, and he bit down hard enough to draw a small shudder, and then kissed and sucked the spot in apology.

“John…” the whisper came from just above his head. “Do it again?”

John bit down again, and felt Sherlock’s free hand wrap around to tighten in his hair. “Don’t stop.” It was almost a command. John obliged, and felt Sherlock arch up slightly into the sensation. Then he felt his head lifted up and his lips met the detective’s again, crushingly desperate. He reached down his own hand, slowly, finding the bulge Sherlock’s trousers were poorly containing and stroking similarly, until eventually they were both pressing hard into one another’s palms and dangerously close to the edge.

“We have to stop.” John practically whimpered. He felt Sherlock exhale shakily, and they both broke away to face the screen in front of them. How nobody had noticed, John reasoned, was nothing short of a miracle. Blueballed in the middle of a film, like he was a teenager again. He found Sherlock’s hand on the armrest and took it, stroking a thumb over the back. For the rest of the film, Bruce Willis wreaked havoc on various Russian spies; but John could only think of the havoc he would wreak on his flatmate once they got home.

After an eternity, the credits rolled and John pocketed the near-empty bottle of scotch. Once the theatre had mostly cleared out, he glanced over at Sherlock, whose neck was an absolute mess.

“You might want to put on that scarf,” John said begrudgingly. The pale skin against the purple shirt was almost enough to make him not say anything at all. Sherlock lifted a hand to feel the offending area, and leaned over to kiss John gently. John felt himself leaning forward and into it again, but this time Sherlock backed away.

“I got a text from Lestrade,” he hummed into John’s ear. “Apparently somewhat urgent.”

John wanted to whine. He wanted very badly to take that shirt off with his teeth and then get free reign on that neck. “Is it _really_ urgent?”

“Considering that I was almost dead at this time yesterday, I don’t think he’d be apt to text me again so soon unless it was of the utmost importance.”

John sighed heavily, standing up and zipping his jacket. “Fine, but you’re paying for the cab. Also I think I might be drunk. No, I'm pretty drunk. And we’re not chasing anybody through the streets of London unless they’re planning on murdering the Queen herself, got it? We’ll go to the scene and you can do your thing and then we’re going home.”

Sherlock stood up, sliding on his coat and pulling on his gloves. He stood up to full height against John, looking down somewhat menacingly. “Is that an order?”

John grabbed his lapels and brought him down to kiss him hard. “Yes, it is.”

They seperated and walked out into the cool light of the the theatre lobby. Both felt uncommonly happy. 


	20. The Precedence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people go out for dinner and a film on a date. John and Sherlock are more of the film-and-a-murder types.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the calm before the storm. Or the calm before the smut? Either way. Prepare your body.

The cab ride to the crime scene consisted of John trying to figure out how to seem sober and glaring death rays at Sherlock for not seeming similarly inebriated.

“They’re all gonna think Imma lush.” John complained, holding his hand up to his face and willing the ten blurry fingers to become five. “Mebbe I should just go home.” He looked over at Sherlock who was contemplating him carefully. “Alwright, see, when you look at me like that it makes me think you’re gonna eat me or something. You do that all the time.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “I’m just rather astounded at your remarkably low tolerance for alcohol.”

“Half a bloody bottle of scotch isn’t low tolerance, innit? I think I’m doing pretty well considering.”

“Well, you’re certainly not going home just yet, so you have approximately seven minutes to become passably sober.”

“Medically, not gonna happen.”

“I was attempting humour. Obviously it’s entirely impossible for you to—”

“Shut up, please.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, and eventually John worked up the courage to slide across the seat and closer to Sherlock. A casual arm around his shoulders rewarded him for the move.

“I imagined I would just feel real awkward if we ever, you know.” John murmured.

“And do you?”

“Not at all. Actually feels stupid we never did this before.”

The cab pulled up to the scene, flashing lights and milling policemen cueing John and Sherlock to disentangle. John managed to get out of the cab without tripping and hoped desperately that all attention would be on Sherlock and not him. He trailed after the detective under the yellow tape and around to the front of the building, where Donovan was dutifully waiting.

“You can’t go in yet.”

“Can’t? I assure you, Sally, if I had even the slightest motivation, I’m perfectly capable of getting in here. Whether or not I’m _allowed_ is an entirely different matter. And one that I could not care less about, really.”

“Jesus, you’re annoying. You have to wait until Lestrade gets here. According to Anderson there’s blood just everywhere inside, and he doesn’t want you mucking about and screwing up the evidence until it’s been cleared.”

“Oh, Anderson, how is the poor bastard? Judging by the state of your hair he’s quite well. Not sure I’d say the same for his wife, judging by your face just now.”

Sally glared at him and directed her attention to John.

“Are you sick or something, John? You’d think he might take a little more care not to break his toys, you know. Did he poison you this time?”

“I’m entirely… good, Sally, and you’re a bitch.”

Sherlock whipped around so that Sally wouldn’t see the absolute grin on his face, and descended the stairs to John.

“Also I’m not a toy or whatever.” John added. Sally rolled her eyes dramatically and Sherlock led John away by the arm to just where the lines of police cars ended and the street returned to darkness.

“Well, what’re we waiting for? You’re not just gonna kick in the door, like? I thought we didn’t care about rules.”

“Normally I wouldn’t, yes, but I believe I’ve already acquired just about all the information I need.”

“Wha?”

“John, you really must learn to make observations. Look at the house, the neighbourhood. Upper end, clearly well-established. Floor plans must follow a typical pattern, stairs immediately inside, atrium to the left. Blood is everywhere? Unusual, but considering the fact that there is no medical personnel around or outside the ambulance we can assume it’s a singular homicide, no witnesses as of yet, nobody else in the house. Clearly the body is too far-gone to require any sort of attention. The upper window, there, broken from the outside. While that should indicate that that is the point through which the perpetrator entered, it’s a decoy. There is no treading in the garden below, but there is a very obviously placed piece of tartan cloth caught in the window, just there. A false trail, but who would wear such a distinctive piece of clothing to commit a murder, and likely often enough that its discovery would indicate their guilt? That remains slightly unclear, but will likely be obvious once I get inside. Also, if there is blood everywhere inside, the perpetrator would have needed to cleanse themselves of it, as there are no traces of it outside thus far or they would be marked. So we can deduce that the perpetrator is familiar with the house, judging by the break-in, approximately six feet and one inch tall as the ledge under the broken window is positioned at such an angle that—”

“Sorry, Sherlock, I’m sure it’s all very obvious and clear to you, but I have no idea what half the words you’re saying mean and it’s pretty much all just blurry right now.”

Sherlock sighed indulgently. “Fine, allow me to synopsise: The owner of the house has been murdered in order to send a message to their closest heir that they, the heir, have a duty to fulfil and have not yet done it sufficiently. I might be able to more clearly determine who each of the involved parties are and what exactly that duty is once I can get inside directly.”

“And you got that from looking at a house?”

“I’m not… John, if it was as simple as looking at a house, then I’m sure—”

“Shhh. I think it’s kind of very attractive that you’re able to do that.”

“I don’t follow.”

John once again reached up to pull the detective down to his level by the lapels of his Belstaff.

“Now do you follow?”

He kissed Sherlock lightly.

“Not that that wasn’t very pleasant, but I am still unclear as to what you meant by—”

John muffled the last of the sentence with his lips, releasing his hold on the coat to link his hands up behind Sherlock’s head. He felt hands around his waist pulling him closer, and his legs became dangerously shaky as he melted against the man who he had somehow neglected to kiss for the better part of five years.

“Oh bloody _fuck_ , can you two maybe not do that here? Jesus!”

John broke away so fast his head swam, but he could make out Anderson in an extremely bloodied hazmat suit walking towards them.

“It’s not… not what it looks like?” John mumbled, highly embarrassed.

“I somehow doubt your lord and saviour’s name will be of any assistance to you here, Anderson. Really, are you so entirely dense that you can’t conceive of even one slightly intelligent interjection?” Sherlock quipped.

“Piss off. I’m supposed to tell you you can come inside now.”

“Why, thank you, Anderson. I’m actually somewhat proud that your brain has progressed to the point where you’re capable of fulfilling simple commands. Can you also roll over?”

Anderson gave Sherlock the finger and walked away, fuming.

“Ah, shit. Now everybody’s gonna know.” John groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Is it really so bad, John? According to my brother, the general opinion is that we’ve been doing this for quite some time.”

“Let’s go look at some blood and stuff, okay?”

“Certainly.”


	21. The Acquiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dynamic duo finally get down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote some smut, guys. I think it's smutty enough to change the rating to E. I dunno. Whatever. It's hard to be a lesbian in a world of gay dude sex.

Within five minutes of stepping cautiously around scattered brain matter and bodily fluids, Sherlock had determined the incident to be gang activity and the next target, as well as where to track the leads involved. Lestrade seemed embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I really thought it was just some weird psychopath on the loose who broke it. That’s what it looked like. But I figured there was more to it, maybe another Moriarty connection. Otherwise I wouldn’t have called you boys out.”

“It’s understandable that, when leaving deduction to simpletons, the conclusions drawn will be misleading. Maybe next time you’ll leave Miss Donovan and Anderson to do their own jobs,” Sherlock snipped icily.

“Well, we’ll handle the rest. John, are you sure you’re alright?”

John was very much regretting not putting his foot down and going home earlier.

“Yeh, I’m fine, Greg.” The ceiling was spinning a lot, but he was fine.

“Take him home, Sherlock. G’night.”

John was led out to the curb and into another cab.

“Not much of a case after all.” He remarked, settling comfortably into the worn seating.

“No, actually quite annoying.”

John found himself drooping over until his head met a Belstaff-coated shoulder. It stiffened briefly and then relaxed, accepting the new form of contact.

“All in all, though, I’d say it was a really… really good, uh, date?”

The shoulder loosened further until an arm was wrapped securely around his waist.

“I haven’t much for comparison, but I am inclined to agree,” came the reply.

* * *

 

It was late when the pair returned to 221B, so late it was beginning to show signs of being early. For John, who was nearly fastidious in getting exactly five and a half hours of sleep a night, four AM was quite forbidden. For Sherlock, who considered occasionally falling asleep while performing other tasks quite sufficient for maintaining bodily function, four AM was a time of great opportunity.

The street was quite abandoned, and the sound of John fumbling to unlock the door echoed in a way it never did during daylight. Eventually, and with great difficulty, he managed to coax open the lock and began the next task of getting the door open and his body inside. The hinges began to turn, but quite suddenly stopped as a gloved hand closed over John’s and pulled the door shut again.

“What…” John started, turning around, to find he was trapped, back against the door, against Sherlock. His arms formed a barrier to either side of John, pressed to the door. “Oh.” John realised.  

“Earlier, you said you find it attractive that I could deduce so much about a situation by means of a quick observation.”

“Something like that.” John breathed. Sherlock’s mouth closed over his, bruisingly deep, and the detective emitted what might have actually been a growl. John briefly forgot how to inhale.

“I find it incredibly attractive that you called Sally a bitch.”

John was planning a reply, but it was efficiently muffled as Sherlock kissed him again. John clawed for purchase against Sherlock’s back as his legs decided to go completely dead. He felt a knee pressed between his own, and he kissed back as hard as he could, a pressure building in the pit of his stomach and willing him to do more, more, more than was humanly possible. Sherlock was grinding up against him now, and John pushed back, moaning softly into the kiss and trying not to gasp for breath.

John managed to break away slightly, so that he and Sherlock were forehead to forehead against each other. “We should go inside,” he gasped.

“Had enough?” Sherlock replied, his voice so low it sent a chill up John’s spine. The normally grey eyes were almost black, focused on him so completely that he briefly really did forget to breathe. A desperate kiss brought him back to reality.

“Absolutely fucking not.” he moaned, and in a fluid movement Sherlock opened the door and pulled him inside.

This time, John grabbed for Sherlock and pulled him down. It seemed like they would fall to the ground together, but Sherlock managed to change directory and slam into the wall just in front of the stairs. John ripped at the Belstaff, and it was deposited hastily on the banister followed by the blue scarf. He found a part of Sherlock’s neck that had not yet been claimed and bit down, drawing a moan from the detective. John fumbled at the top buttons of the purple shirt, a need for more of that deliciously pale skin, to mark every inch of the man trapped under him as his own.

“Upstairs.” He commanded, and within seconds of getting through the apartment door it was clear that reaching the bedroom would be quite impossible.  The desire to rip the buttons off Sherlock’s shirt was enormously tempting, but John contented himself to rewarding each newly exposed inch of skin with a bite, finishing with one hard enough to draw a singular bead of blood. Sherlock bucked against the pain and pleasure, pulling John down to the floor on top of him and up to eye level to kiss him again, tasting every inch of his mouth. Careful hands pulled at John’s coat and then at the jumper underneath.

“John,” Sherlock moaned as a hand raked over his bare chest and down to where a faint trail of hair began. “Please,” he begged as the hand lingered on his belt.

John conceded, sliding down and fumbling at the button of Sherlock’s trousers. Underneath he revealed black boxer briefs that were strained to contain his arousal. John let himself stroke it carefully once, feeling it push up against the pressure. Sherlock gasped.

With shaky hands, John pushed down the thin cloth and took Sherlock’s cock firmly in his hand. Pre come leaked from the tip and John leaned forward, letting himself lick a stripe carefully from the base up. It was more pleasant than he had imagined. Hands reached down and grabbed at his hair, affirming that he was doing something right. He let one hand stroke up and down slowly, firmly, and he closed his mouth around the tip, earning him a shudder. He swirled his tongue around slowly and then pushed down, taking in as much as he could, still stroking with his hand.

“John.” The sound of Sherlock’s voice was pushing him to the edge himself. “John, I’m—”

John broke away slightly. “Go ahead.” He stroked faster, faster, until Sherlock arched up into him and came, yelling John’s name. John finished himself seconds later, collapsing down by Sherlock’s side as the world went momentarily white. He pulled back into reality, gasping for air, and turned to face the figure prone beside him.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

For a moment there was no reply. And then:

“Obviously.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll be gone for the next two weeks, guys, off to Ireland and then London, actually. Maybe get some firsthand research in! I'll write plenty while I'm away, but it will be hard to update it until I get back.
> 
> So hopefully this smut will hold yall till next time! If you've been following this fic since the beginning, thanks so much for sticking around. If you're just getting to this point now, don't leave! I will return 8/18/13, if not earlier.
> 
> Till then, cheers!
> 
> -KO
> 
> (Feel free to message/comment while I'm away, I can and will still respond to those as often as I can)


	22. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock deal with the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! I wrote so much while I was gone, it's just a matter of typing it up. But oh, it is so wonderful to have a keyboard and large screen and word processing again. This isn't the most exciting chapter, but I feel like the previous one needed some followup. There's plenty more to come, but I'm completely jet-lagged so it'll have to wait another day.

Eventually John managed to convince himself that he really would not benefit from lying on the floor next to the equally incapacitated Sherlock Holmes forever. He stood up, his back creaking, and pulled pants on self-consciously. Sherlock remained absolutely still, looking up at the ceiling as though it might contain the meaning of life.

“So… that happened.” John choked out. There was no reply. Suddenly acutely embarrassed, John tossed a robe at Sherlock and made his way towards the bathroom. “I’m just going to, uh, clean up a bit, then.” He was again met with silence and completed his journey to the shower.

The problem with showering, John realised, was that it forced you to think about _everything_ , which John was not quite ready to do. Once the hot water hit, however, it all became uncomfortably clear:

He had just had sex with a man.

Not just any man, a man he loved.

He had just had sex with Sherlock?

John buried his head in his hands. Okay, so it hadn’t been full-on sex, but about as close as two could get without actually doing it. And up and until about a month ago, John had never really thought of men as anything but what they were to him: doctors, bartenders, snooker players, soldier, or uncommonly attractive genius consulting detectives. Well, wait, that wasn’t quite right. He hadn’t been attracted to Sherlock until recently. That flutter in his chest before, the one that came when their hands had touched or when Sherlock buttoned a collar over his neck or that time in Buckingham Palace when the sheet…

John made a slightly strangled noise as he realised that since the moment they had met, he had been ridiculously attracted to Sherlock Holmes. That he had been in love with him since the first time he had realised he couldn’t live without him, over the barrel of his Sauer across the classrooms of an empty school.

And it was okay, John realised. It was fine. It was all fine.

* * *

 

The next morning, Sherlock had put on his robe and (hopefully, John prayed, if he had any decency) showered, but had returned to lying on the floor.

“Good morning?” John ventured, stepping over him to get to the kitchen to make something that might contain the hangover wreaking havoc on the inside of his skull. He settled on tea and yoghurt, toast being too noisy.

“By ‘that’, I assume you mean the fact that we both just engaged in sexual activity?”

“Sorry, what the fuck?”

From the floor, Sherlock continued, “You said, and I quote ‘So, that happened.’ I’m searching for clarification on ‘that’.” He sat up to regard John and winced.

“Are you alright?” John asked, standing from the kitchen table where he had settled, suddenly on full alert. “How did you hurt yourself this time? Where?”

“I’m not hurt.” Sherlock insisted, standing fully and wincing again.

“Shut up. Don’t play tough. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock looked at John in a way that John realised might be _nervousness._

“It’s… it’s not wrong, really, just inconvenient.” Sherlock opened the front of his robe slightly to reveal his chest and abdomen, which were both covered in obnoxiously violet hickeys and bite marks. John did a double take.

“Um.”

“Again, not hurt. Just, ah,” for once in his life, Sherlock was at a complete loss for words. John was not.

“Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock, what have I done to you?” He rushed over to the detective and gently rested a hand on his exposed chest. They both shivered at the contact. “Jesus, I was so drunk, I can’t believe myself. You can’t just be a good sport like that, Sherlock, you can’t let me _hurt_ you, it’s—”

“John.” Sherlock interrupted, grabbing the hand on his chest and enclosing it in cool fingers. “I _enjoyed_ it. I had never… sex and that lot has always seemed so primal, so basic to me. But the things I _felt_. It was better than any high I’ve ever experienced. It was as though… John, I had forgotten how to feel.” He reached out for John’s other hand, pulling them close together. “It’s intoxicating.”

The way Sherlock’s stare made John forget how to breathe was starting to get concerning.

“Okay. A-alright. Just, there are certain things you can do to let the other person know, during, uh, sex, what you like and don’t like. There are limits?” Now he wasn’t quite sure what he was saying anymore, icy eyes burning into his.

“Well, you’ll have to teach me, I suppose,” Sherlock murmured, his voice gravelly. He _knew_ the effect he had on John, John realised. _Bastard._ “For example, right now I would very much like to back you against this table and kiss you. Would that be good for you? Would that push any limits?” He smirked in a way that was so evil that it really should not have made John so hard.

“Shut up and do it.”

Sherlock did, kissing him so intensely that John felt his legs loosen. The edge of the table caught him, and he felt Sherlock’s hands grabbing at the back of his shirt, and then reaching down to his belt, fumbling to undo it. John gasped for air as Sherlock succeeded and reached down to stroke John teasingly through his pants. His head rolled back and he had the unfortunate luck of noticing the time on the oven clock: 8:30.

“Shit,” me mumbled, lightly pushing Sherlock away, “I’m going to be late.”

“But John!” Sherlock fairly _whined_.

“I’ll be back later. We’ll finish this, er, discussion then.”

“But what am I supposed to do now?”

“What? I assume you usually do something during the day besides thinking about corpses and waiting patiently for night to come.”

“No, you misunderstand me. What should one do if they were, hypothetically, very aroused and unable to get down from it?”

John laughed a little too loudly. He re-buckled his belt and crossed the kitchen to retrieve a roll of paper towels. He tossed them to Sherlock.

“Use your imagination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the show was filmed on Spencer and it's all just a massive tourist trap, but I took a picture of 221b while I was in London. Made me happy. Link: http://imgur.com/a/TW3ZO


	23. The Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn the meaning and implications of change.

All day at the surgery, John was a nervous wreck. He fumbled through the motions of rounds, very nearly overdosed a lymphomatic kid, and forgot to sign off on three of the interns’ timecards until they bothered Sarah into asking him for them.

“John?” She approached, watching him try and fail to place a line on an outpatient. “Are you okay?”

John swore, whipping around to face her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You haven’t signed off on a bunch of the interns. I think they’ll want to go home.”

“Of course, I mean, who wouldn’t want to go home? Nothing wrong with going home. Nothing weird about that.” He finally hit a vein.

“Why don’t you take a break? It’s about lunch, and I think any of the nurses can cover Mrs. Johnson right now.”

John sighed heavily. “Okay.” He made his way towards the cafeteria, taking out his phone. Sarah followed him.

 “Might I join you?”

John looked up from the series of text messages he had received that morning and failed to read until just then:

_9:41 AM **SHERLOCK**_ : _How do you do this all the time? Incredibly boring. –SH_

_9:53 AM **SHERLOCK**_ : _Mrs. Hudson wants to know you’re keeping the jumper with the cats on it. Told her no. -SH_

_10:02 AM **SHERLOCK**_ : _Need more paper towels.  –SH_

 

“What the hell,” John muttered.

“Sorry?”

“Oh nothing, sorry. Please do join me, yes.”

“Right.” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

John sent replies:

_12:35 PM to: **SHERLOCK** : Did you buy a new phone? It better not be off the cable plan. –JW_

_12:36 PM to: **SHERLOCK** : Also, that jumper was a gift, you better not touch it. –JW_

_12:36 PM **SHERLOCK** : Jumper eliminated. –SH_

_12:36 PM to: **SHERLOCK** : Get it back, and get your own towels. –JW _

John was really more concerned as to why Mrs. Hudson’s presence had interrupted Sherlock’s… whatever it was he was doing. He hoped she wasn’t mentally scarred.

John followed Sarah through the lunch line and sat down with her at a corner table. He regarded his plastic-wrapped sandwich, and found he had no appetite. All he could think about was the night before, of the feeling of Sherlock under him, the way he tasted, those noises he made… and he was also worried. What did it all mean for them? Were they a _couple_ now? Would they stop being friends? That thought chilled him. As often destructive as it was, he had grown to view his life with Sherlock as a sort of constant. Neither men took to change well; and sex and love were pretty big changes. Especially sex. Did the night before mean they could now actually do it? Did he even want to? John briefly imagined Sherlock inside him and _holy shit yes_ he wanted it but—

“John!”

“What?!” He snapped back to reality.

“I said, I don’t think it was penetrative.”

“WHAT?!”

“The operation, John. I don’t think the procedure penetrated the dermis, and I was asking your thoughts. Jesus, what’s wrong with you today?”

“Oh. OH. No, it was very basic, just removed the abscess and all. Didn’t even have to close.”

His phone buzzed.

_12:40 PM **SHERLOCK**_ : _Arranged for return of jumper upon prompt delivery of paper towels.   –SH_

_12:40 PM to: **SHERLOCK**_ : _Believe me, you won’t need the towels once I get home. –JW_

 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Sarah queried, reading over John’s shoulder. “Are you two—”

“It’s-not-what-it-sounds-like see there was a ah, ah, ah, spill and I was supposed to uh, clean it, but now Sherlock is doing it but I can do it myself later, yeah. We’re not shagging.” He laughed, concernedly high-pitched.

Sarah coughed. “I was going to ask if you two are using perchloric acid in your kitchen again, because you’d be better stealing a spill kit than using paper towels. But I think I just got my answer.”

John rested his forehead on his sandwich.

“John, everybody was betting that you two would get together. Shit, that’s ninety percent of the reason why I knew you and I were just meant to only be friends.”

“Nobody can know, Sarah.”

“Well, I don’t think anybody would guess if you stopped freaking out. Why aren’t you jumping for joy? You seem more like you’ve killed somebody.”

“Or some _thing_. What if I’ve killed the one friendship I ever thought I could rely on to never change?”

Sarah smiled, pulling the flattened sandwich away from him. “Things only change if you make them change. If you two could survive him being dead for three years, you can both figure out a way to keep your daily lives the same and add in the relationship and shagging parts.”

“We really haven’t, though, you know.”

“What, had sex? You can say it, John, you’re a grown man.”

“Okay, fine. We haven’t… sexed.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“It’s all a bit weird for me, you know.”

“I do. And all I’ll say is take your time. No need to rush into anything until you’re ready.”

“Alright.”

“I had thought Sherlock wasn’t interested in that bit. Have you converted the asexual?”

John really wanted to put his face back on the sandwich. “I might have created a monster, on that note. Hence the towels.”

“Now _that_ I don’t want to know. But I expect it’ll be a fairly pleasant monster to deal with.”

John laughed genuinely, despite himself.

“You’re a saint, Sarah,”

“Does this mean you’re a poof now? Can I take you shopping with me?”

“Annnnnnd we’re back.”

“Just doing my job,” her pager beeped. “Speak of the devil.”

“Bye.”

“So long, you arse fiend, you.”

John flipped her off lovingly as she walked away.

* * *

 

“Sherlock, if my jumper is in any condition that is less than pristine—” John stormed back into 221B after what felt like the longest day metaphysically possible. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, fully dressed for once, holding a half- empty roll of towels in one hand and a seemingly intact cat-patterned jumper in the other.

“Your ability to become so worked up over material items is charming.”

“What did you do to it?” John fumed, hanging up his jacket.

“I was going to burn it, but I got so bored that I took it out and had it dry-cleaned instead. Also I bought my own towels and, as you’re aware, a new phone.”

“Great. I hope you had a fun day of wanking and doing errands. God forbid you clean the brain matter out of the sink or actually go out and solve a crime.”

“I did try to solve a crime, John. The crime that is the existence of this jumper.”

“Now _you_ sound like a poof.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. Give me the jumper, please.” John glared expectantly across the room. Sherlock did not budge. “Really? You’re too lazy to bring it over here?”

“I’m not lazy. I’m just aware that your resolve is exceedingly weak and you’ll eventually come over here to get it.”

“You’re an unfathomable arse.” John proved Sherlock right, as usual, as he crossed to the couch. “Give it.” He held out a hand.

Rather than hand it over, however, Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and yanked him down until he was practically straddling the detective, the wind knocked out of him. Catching his breath proved impossible as Sherlock reached down to grab the belt loops at the back of John’s trousers, pulling him up in an excruciatingly pleasant grinding manner.

“Oh.” John managed. The jumper and towels were cast aside.

“I had hoped the imminent threat of jumper destruction might bring you home sooner. I’ve been thinking of you all day,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s ear, grinding them together again with another pull at the belt.

 John began to undo the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, deliberately slow. “All day? How’d you manage to not die of boredom?” He kissed Sherlock teasingly, flicking a tongue over the swell of his lips. Sherlock undid John’s shirt so quickly that John was actually quite impressed. He didn’t have much time to further consider this, however, because Sherlock pushed him down onto the couch and poised himself over him, holding him down. John reached up to finish removing Sherlock’s shirt. As it fell away, he let his fingertips flicker over the pale skin, up his chest and shoulders and arms, over scars and marks that hadn’t been there three years ago. They lingered on the knotted blue rows of stitches that stood out sharply over Sherlock’s bicep.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Minimally.” Sherlock leaned down to kiss John, lingering. “I’ve sustained far worse.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Hm.” Sherlock wasn’t really listening, and he seemed fairly preoccupied with undoing John’s trousers.

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt.”

“I don’t mind it if it means you’ll nag me less.”

“ _That_ is quite enough,” John said, grabbing Sherlock and flipping over fairly forcefully so the detective was the one pinned.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock breathed almost inaudibly. Then there was no more talking.

* * *

 

Sarah had been right about change, although not completely. Change, John realised, happened no matter what. It was inevitable. However, change only became significant if one made it so. John resolved to ride out the tides of change as complacently as possible.

When they were going about their daily lives, both Sherlock and John felt a certain relief that routine varied only slightly. John still woke, dressed, and had breakfast first thing in the morning. However, now, between tea and running out the door, Sherlock would sometimes catch him and kiss him in a way that send waves of electricity running through his body; waves that followed him all the way to work.

Sherlock found that sometimes, when he was working out an experiment or performing calculations, John would rest his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder and let an arm wrap loosely around his waist. More curiously, Sherlock found he did not mind this. It was not an interruption, just a pleasant addition.

The sessions on the couch began to become more practised, less hungry and more eager to please, eager to draw a reaction. The first time they made it to the bedroom was after one particularly long night shift, when John had insisted that if he didn’t get in his own bed his spine might snap.

“If you want to, you can stay,” John had mumbled up afterwards, as Sherlock had made to leave. The detective had complied, lying back down.

“Does this mean I am supposed to sleep?”

“That’s usually what people do in bed.”

“That and have sex.”

“Uh, yes. That’s true.”

“The latter action, I take, you are not ready for.”

John felt his face getting hot. “Not yet.”

“Stop blushing.”

“How could I possibly—”

Sherlock kissed him quickly. “It makes me want to do _that_.”

“Oh.”

“It is true, John. We’ve done about everything one could possibly do with another besides actual sex.”

“I know, I know. Believe me, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it—”

“ _Obviously_.”

“I’m just not quite ready, okay?”

“Certainly. Although any estimate as to when you will be prepared would be… much appreciated.”

“I promise; you’ll be the first to know.”

 

John woke up the next morning in Sherlock’s arms. Sometimes, change was really excellent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I really wanted to show the way John and Sherlock transition from friendship into a real relationship, because I feel like that gets skipped over a lot in fanfiction. But I've always wanted to deal with how they learn to be happy together, as opposed to just sort of skipping from friends to sex and then love and then bam they're married. Anyway, let me know how I'm doing. Feedback is super helpful. The next few chapters will be more exciting, once Johnlock's been established.


	24. The Paramour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A murder and an admission.

ONE MONTH LATER

* * *

“What’s wrong with your neck?” Sally had asked. Sherlock had forgotten that he had several extremely noticeable hickeys and had removed his scarf to better observe the body in front of him. He immediately put it back on.

The fact that nobody answered only served to make it more awkward.

“Is nobody going to answer me? Seriously, not that I really care, but it looks like you got strangled or something.”

Anderson coughed obnoxiously. “Why don’t you ask John, Sally?”

John suddenly found all eyes on him. _Fuck._ “Oh, well, see, what happened was, uh…”

“Wait, are you two _doing it_?”

John was somewhat surprised Anderson hadn’t told Sally or, indeed, everyone who would listen, about catching the couple over a month ago. He was still, however, without an answer for Sally.

“No?” He attempted.

As if by divine providence, Lestrade chose that moment to enter the room. “So, what have we got? Any ideas?”

“Answers, not ideas.” Sherlock responded.

“Oh, so _now_ you can talk.” John hissed.

“My conclusion is that this woman,” Sherlock indicated the corpse, a middle-aged woman dressed in what would have been high fashion if not for the bloodstains, “was not killed here, but somebody went to great lengths to make it look as though she was. As such, I can deduce that she is indeed the second target of the gang activity I indicated the last time you called me. That you downgraded the lead and did not sufficiently follow through has led to exactly what I predicted.”

Lestrade sighed. “Look, this is all falling on my shoulders. I figured we had scared them off after the last time, but I was wrong. You were right. But now we need to figure out exactly who killed this woman, and we have to find them, and we have to make them talk. So, please tell me how she wasn’t killed here. That doesn’t make much sense.”

“It’s simple, really. There is one object in this room that does not belong.” He crossed to where the murder weapon, a sharp blade, was lying, marked off as evidence. “Why would someone with a clear propensity for French goods and soft living own an eighteenth century American-made knife of a class restricted for professional use?” He lifted the blade gently by the hilt to look at it closely. “Perhaps convenience, but that seems illogical as every other aspect of the killing appears very carefully planned.”

“Don’t touch that!”

“Shut up.” Sherlock crossed over again to the body “So it becomes clear that this murder is obviously linked to the same group as the first, but was moved in order to throw off any trail.”

“It still doesn’t make sense to me. The first body was chopped into a hundred bloody pieces, this one’s just stab wounds. Not a great message.”

“Consider the knife and one might determine the message. The knife could not be obtained legally by a woman such as this. She’s a banker, not a collector or a weapons expert. She was the type of person, however, capable of acquiring more dangerous objects. Until, that is, when she made one fatal mistake. And so they have left us her body and the world a message.”

“What’s that?” Lestrade asked.

“John,” Sherlock addressed him directly, “Would you say there is anything unusual about the stab wounds?”

John was secretly delighted his assistance was being called upon. “I would, actually. They’re extremely deep, but the bodily fluids lost and closing of the flesh is inconsistent with a stab at that depth. It’s like they’re being blocked up or something.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock grabbed his toolkit from an inner pocket and removed the tweezers. He reached down to the body and slid the device into one of the larger wounds.

“What the hell are you doing? That’s for autopsy, not—” Anderson stopped abruptly.

Sherlock removed the tweezers, grasping a bloodied gold coin at the end.  “The message: they kept too much for themselves. Here’s your evidence,” he flicked the coin to Anderson who caught it and then had the unfortunate realisation that he was not wearing gloves.

“Alright, that’s all well and good, but this confirms we’ve got serial mob killings on our hands and we have no idea exactly who’s executing them. This means we have to get a sting operation, we have to get out the old files—”

“I believe, Lestrade, that is what most would refer to as ‘your job.’ A job which I do not believe I am required or, really, needed to assist with much further. You have a clear case. You ignored me last time, and here we are. As such, I suggest you put the inglorious skill of your team to use and actually track your leads before there is another strike.”

“Oh, you’re just such an angel,” Sally snapped, “You can solve a murder in five minutes but you won’t do any of the dirty work yourself. You’d rather spend your precious time with John, snogging or whatever it is you two do.”

“We don’t do that?” John tried. Sally rolled her eyes, and Anderson cackled.

“That’s enough, Sally. Sherlock consults for us, and if we can get it done on our own, there’s no need to make him do our jobs for us. This case is pretty clear cut at this point. Not to mention, the last time he applied himself to a case for us, he was dead for three years. So if we know enough, which we do, then I hate to admit it—but he’s damn right. It’s our own bloody job. He can take his own cases. This isn’t some serial killer that’s come out of the shadows. It’s by people we’ve already got twenty other cases on.”

Sally glared at Lestrade and huffed indignantly. “Fine. Whatever. I just don’t think it’s fair.”

John could feel himself getting strangely angry, in a way he never had before towards Sally. Usually she was just annoying, or irritating, but now he felt absolutely enraged. The words fell out of his mouth almost involuntarily:

“You know what’s not fair, Sally? That people like you, who’ve never done a useful thing in their lives, get off scott-free from every case and can get back to, I don’t know, blowing Anderson every night. While on the other hand, Sherlock can and has practically died doing your work for you. So how about you just… just… fuck right off.” John was nearly shaking.

“Everybody out. Out. I’ve had enough. Sherlock, John, thank you; go home.” Lestrade pointed to the door. John felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, lightly guiding him outside.

Once they were on the street and a ways off from the crime scene, John felt himself relax. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve no idea why I just… exploded at her, I… I guess I couldn’t take it any more.” He stepped away to toe at a puddle, embarrassed and still on edge. He could feel Sherlock’s presence behind him.

“I can fight my own battles, John.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He felt himself being spun around to face Sherlock, whose gaze was smoldering.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“I only meant that you needn’t be protective of me. The only opinion I take into any regard is yours.”

John couldn’t help himself; he pulled Sherlock down to his level to kiss him. He was rewarded by arms extending to wrap around him and pull him in closer.

“ _Really?_ I just reamed out Sally and Anderson about the snogging thing, and then I come out to find you two and you’re at it.”

John and Sherlock jumped away from each other as though electrified. Lestrade looked very tired and very unsurprised.

“See, what happened was—” John’s voice was uncharacteristically scratchy. He cleared his throat.

“Nevermind. I just wanted to say thanks to you two for coming out. I mean. For, uh, for coming to the scene. To help solve. Stuff. Not coming out, like,”

“Blush doesn’t look well on you.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Why do I even bother with you?”

“Because I do your job better than you or your entire team? Because I save you weeks’ worth of trial and error? Because you secretly find me charming?”

“If you were to murder him, I would honestly look the other way.” Lestrade addressed John. “Good night.”

“Noted. Night, Greg.”

As Lestrade walked away, Sherlock proudly displayed the DI’s badge to John, which he had stolen. While impressed, John still made him run to give it back.

* * *

 

Most of the cab ride back to the flat consisted of Sherlock trying to both text and give John a handjob, and he was being very loud about it. The cabbie kept glancing back and then flicking the rosary that hung from the mirror over the dash. John, while not unenthusiastic, was too bothered about what had happened at the crime scene to allow Sherlock to succeed. Carelessness had gotten him caught too many times, and it was weighing on him heavily. As such, he spent most of the cab ride fidgeting and swatting Sherlock away. Once they were safely indoors, he slightly conceded.

“Can you wait just a moment?” he gasped as Sherlock pushed him up against the wall.

“What could possibly be so important?” growled Sherlock into John’s lips.

“Just… just hold on.” John pushed the detective off and managed to escape into the kitchen. He caught his breath and started a pot of tea, dropping utensils nervously as he went. Sherlock took off his coat and followed into the room stormily.

“If I’ve done something wrong, John, I refuse to apologise.”

“Oh please, say that in an even _more_ prissy tone.”

“Your use of sarcasm is as intelligent as usual. When you’re ready to speak candidly, I’ll be in the other room.” Sherlock made to exit, clearly upset that he had disrobed and could not swish his Belstaff as he went.

“Wait,” John said, steeling himself, “You haven’t done anything. Well, nothing more than what you usually do. I was just thinking—”

“How unusual.”

“Don’t do that. I’ve been thinking a lot, actually, and today especially I’ve sort of realised it’s going to happen anyway.”

“Honestly, I find it extremely attractive when you’re nervous, John, but you’ll have to be more clear. What do you mean?”

“Alright, it’s just, I know that people think they know already, but it might do well to actually officially tell them.”

“Tell them what?”

“Are you being serious?”

“I wasn’t aware I had struck you as the comedic type.”

“Tell them about our relationship, Sherlock. Really.”

“Our relationship, John? I had thought that clear. I am a detective, specifically a consulting detective, you assist me, and beyond that we are physically… involved.”

John wasn’t sure he had ever seen Sherlock look embarrassed before, and his attempt to remain stoic and not blush was extremely appealing. John melted a little and moved closer to where Sherlock was standing by the table.

“I get this is all new to you, and I know you like to think of yourself as a machine or Vulcan or something, but like it or not there is an emotional aspect of our relationship as well. You do realise you’ve been sleeping in my bed for over a month?”

Sherlock glared. “What do you want of me, John? If the implications of love are that I must change how I work, then I feel entirely obligated to inform you once more that my marriage to my job is non-negotiable.”

“You think I don’t bloody _know_ that? Sherlock, I’m not asking you to change anything at all. You’re not understanding me. This isn’t some ultimatum, I’m just suggesting that if we do love each other and there’s more to us than just solving cases and… and shagging, it might be nice to make that known.”

“So what, I’m supposed to make out a shirt with ‘I’m dating John Watson’ on it?”

“No! Gah, you’re fucking _infuriating_.”

“And you are so flagrantly _ordinary_ sometimes that—”

John had had quite enough, and slammed his mug onto the table. Sherlock stopped, realising he had been offensive.

“John, I only meant—”

John shut him up again with a harsh kiss, pulling away quickly. The detective’s face was now entirely blank.

“All I want, Sherlock, is that in future if someone asks or assumes we’re a couple, we either say yes or don’t correct them at all. That’s all I meant.”

“Correct them, John? I never have.”

The truth of that statement knocked John into a chair.

“I am and always will be married to my work. But I have never been quite so… at peace as since you’ve become my paramour.”

Sherlock took a seat beside John and for a moment they were silent.

 “I’m quite fine with being ordinary, you know. So long as you don’t get bored of me too soon.”

“How could I ever be bored of you? John, the fact that I love you is by far the greatest mystery I’ve ever endeavoured to solve.”

John was too relieved to be offended. 


	25. The Cataclysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something about Mary...

 

Mary Morstan had become rather like a ghost in John’s mind. There, present, but only a reminder of what had been. He had grown comfortable with this spectre until it asked him out for coffee and thereby ceased to be intangible. 

“What am I supposed to say to this?” he had asked Sarah, holding up his phone to display the offending text.

“Say yes? I don’t think she wants to get back together with you, it sounds like she wants to talk.”

“But… I don’t know. Sherlock says he doesn’t care, but he’s really the jealous type. And he really, really didn’t like Mary. He’ll be upset if I see her.”

“So don’t tell him. You know, just because you’re dating him and living with him doesn’t mean he needs to know every tiny detail of your life. Unless you still have feelings for her—”

“I don’t.”

“Then I see no reason why you can’t meet her out for a cuppa and keep it to yourself. Plus you could let her know that you and Sherlock are together now, so you’ll have nothing to feel guilty about.”

He had examined the text again. “I guess you’re right.”

_8:47 AM to: **MARY** : So 4:30 tomorrow then? –JW _

_8:47 AM **MARY** : See you then._

It was only coffee, John reasoned. No harm could come of it, and Mary deserved to have more closure than she had received. It had been over two months, he and Sherlock were officially together and doing well, and he at least owed a conversation to the woman who had saved his life. If he left his Wednesday shift an hour early and carefully covered his tracks, there was no way Sherlock would know. He would not be discovered. He hoped.

* * *

 

The café was more crowded than John would have liked, but Mary had beaten him there and snagged a table. She looked okay, John reasoned. A little tired, a few pounds heavier, but mostly unchanged. A line of cat hair stood out on her shirt where she had missed a spot with a lint roller, but her bright red lipstick did a decent job of drawing one’s attention away from it. She noticed John and waved him over.

“John! You look… wow, you look great.”

“Hey, hey. So do you. Nice to see you.”

They exchanged an awkward side-hug. An overworked waiter came over and took their drink orders, and then John was left to dig up pleasantries from the back of his head.

“So… it looks like it might actually snow a bit this winter.”

“Yeah, it has been pretty cold lately. “

_Oh dear heavens this was painful._

“Colder than last year.”

“I don’t know, last year was pretty cold too.”

“I guess so.”

“Yep.”

An incredibly uncomfortable silence fell over the table. John grabbed the bottle of HP and read the label as though it was the most scintillating literature he had ever examined. Mary peeled off layers of blue nail polish. Eventually, the drinks were delivered and the awkwardness was briefly eliminated.

“So,” Mary mumbled.

“So.” John agreed.

“Well, how have you been since, y’know? You seriously do look better than I’ve ever seen you before.”

“I’ve been really excellent, actually. I’ve been, uh, seeing somebody.”

“I’ve had no luck in that department. Nobody seems particularly interested in me. And Misty died so I’ve been a little out of it.”

Misty? Her oldest cat, right.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No you’re not, she hated you. But thanks.”

For a minute, the silence crept back. John gulped at his coffee even though it scalded his tongue.

“Well, then, who’s the lucky lady you’re seeing?”

John became preoccupied with the bowl of sugar cubes adorning the edge of the table. He cleared his throat a few times.

“It’s, uh, not a… he’s not… not a lady.”

Mary blanched. “Oh. OH.”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s you and Sherlock, then?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re gay?”

“ _NO._ ” John snapped, a little too loudly. A few diners glanced over. “No,” he said, more softly. “I’m not anything. I’m just what I’ve always been.”

“Alright. I kinda figured you two would get together. I just guess it’s a little strange for me that it’s actually happening.”

“It’s strange for me too. But in a good way, I suppose.”

Mary looked down at her tea. “You know, I wasn’t okay for a while. After we split, I got pretty low. I missed you. I still miss you.”

John felt a painful, guilty lump in his throat as he realised that his life had been moving so fast he had hardly had time to miss Mary at all.

“It was hard for me too,” he lied.

“No it wasn’t. I know you too well. I was just your buffering period.”

“That’s not true! I really… Mary, you saved me.”

“I kept you going, is what I did. Sherlock is your life. Always has been.”

“Look, he’s not—”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.” John even surprised himself with the immediacy the answer came to him.

“And does he love you?”

He paused slightly for that one. “In his way, yes. He does.”

“Then shit, John, what’s strange about it? I’m not one to judge. If you’re happy, which you clearly are, I’m happy for you. Good for you two.”

They both smiled.

“Thank you, Mary.”

They chatted amiably about work and telly and nothing until the check had come and gone. John stood; shrugged on his coat.

“It was nice seeing you,” he said genuinely.

“You too, luv. I really meant it, I’m happy for you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Any time you’d like to talk again, just say the word.”

“I will.”

“Ta.”

A curiously light feeling filled John as he parted ways with Mary Morstan. A pleasant sense of finality. It followed him all throughout the cab ride home.

* * *

 

Sherlock was many things, and easy to fool was not one of them. Besides his own powers of observation, he had a lifetime of experience in learning to see through deception.

_Of course father will come home._

_They only pick on you because they’re jealous._

_You’re perfectly normal._

_It’s not_ that _addictive._

_We appreciate your services._

_You don’t actually think I was interested in you?_

_Of course he’s Richard Brook._

_Everything’s just fine._

John had left for work that morning wearing his grey cardigan, which was an obvious indicator that something was unusual. While he fancied himself quite discrete, John was very much a man of pattern. Grey jumper, no breakfast, and noticing small details were all glaring signs that he was anxious about something.

“You know there’s a growing crack in the ceiling plaster?” John had quipped as he has grabbed his coat to leave. Sherlock had noticed it, and almost immediately deleted it.

“What an incredibly boring observation. You are aware that the woman two flats up and across the street killed herself last night?”

“That’s awful! I didn’t hear any sirens.”

“Nobody’s discovered her body yet.”

“What the fuck, Sherlock?”

“Oh, I’m going to call the police, you can stop looking like an angry muppet. I just find that to be an entirely more interesting observation than a crack in the ceiling.”

“You’re such a joy.”

“Are you being sarcastic? Our ideas of what quantifies joy are highly disparate.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock. And call the fuzz.”

John had kissed him quickly before leaving, which was unusual but pleasant enough that Sherlock had not pressed as to what John was anxious about.

The moment John returned at the end of the day, however, Sherlock knew something had happened.

“I’m home,” John had said, entering the kitchen where the detective had been mixing some napalm.

“Indubitably.” And then Sherlock had _observed_ :

  1. Trousers. Leg. Lower. Damp. Walked a distance.
  2. Left sleeve, coffee stain.
  3. Cat hair, upper lapel. Transfer, a brush, an embrace.
  4. No flush. Cab back. Hurried. Making up for lost time.
  5. Fingernails clean, washed, could not have come directly from work.
  6. Eye, twitch. Gaze, briefly avoided. Guilt. Something else. Relief?
  7. Lipstick, left cheek.
  8. John had left work early and walked to see a woman.
  9. But John was dating him.
  10. John had planned and secretly been to see Mary.



 

This was unacceptable.

“Did you fuck her before or after the coffee?”

The expletive cut like a knife through the air between the two.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock could neither explain nor reason to himself the absolute bloodlust running through him. John was _his_. He loved him. Mary Morstan was supposed to be a thing of the past.

“Mary. How long have you been carrying on with her?” He kept his voice level, cool. No need to reveal he felt anything. Let it burn a while.

“See, this is exactly why I wasn’t going to tell you. I knew you’d take it the wrong way.”

Sherlock shouldered past John hard and breezed into the living room. He stopped by the fireplace.

“What would be the right way for me to ‘take it’, then? Please, John, enlighten me.”

“There’s no need for you to be so bloody jealous.”

Just for a moment, Sherlock felt his mind go blank. _Beat. Beat. Skip. Return._ A book was leaving his hand; projectile, calculated to pass an exact centimetre away from John’s head. It missed perfectly and collided with the opposite wall with a crack. A dangerous silence rose in its wake. Sherlock realised his hands were shaking.

John cleared his throat and turned around. He walked to where they book now lay. _Othello_. Touchingly ironic. He retrieved it and brought it over to Sherlock, who felt as though he would rather John punch him in the face than stare completely indifferently at him as he extended the small hardcover.

“Mary wants to let you know she’s very happy the two of us are together.” Dead. Toneless.

“John,”

“Don’t talk to me.”

Sherlock had been stabbed, shot, strangled, beaten, and clinically dead before. Not one of those encounters had hurt quite so much as the sound of John’s bedroom door slamming shut.

So this was jealousy. He had noticed it in the past: an itch at the back of his mind when John had brought home another of his long line of dates, or when John didn’t come home at all and returned in the morning looking sleepless and happy. But the itch had been manageable, forgotten and quelled with a few cutting remarks to show he didn’t care. Why should he care? Why did he care now? It was excruciating.

Sherlock applied a nicotine patch and considered of how he could possibly devise a way to never feel again. What surprised him most was that upon realising a solution, (2000 mg Lithium, 85 mg Fluoxetine) he had no desire to implement it. None at all. 


	26. The Defibrillation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many healthy ways to express anger. How John and Sherlock do it is in none of those ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a smut newb, let me know if it's the worst thing ever. Anyway, here, have a spicy chapter.

While seeking refuge in his room had seemed a decent idea at the time, John was very quickly realising that he could not actually stay in there forever. Eventually he would need to face Sherlock again.

He was not sure how he felt, not exactly. Angry, of course, that there was no trust between them, that Sherlock couldn’t control himself when it came to reasonable doubt.  He was sorry; too, guilty that he had not simply confronted Sherlock about the meeting to begin with. Perhaps that would not have solved the problem, but it might have alleviated the situation they found themselves in now.

An hour passed, and another, until John came to terms with the fact that he was both extremely hungry and that he had a night shift he would have to go in for in another hour or so. But, he wondered, how was he supposed to deal with the man in the living room? He couldn’t let him get off easily this time. He was still fairly livid that the detective could figure out every solitary detail about his life and doings, but still couldn’t deduce that John would rather die than hurt him. That he couldn’t tell that John loved him more than anything else in the world. That on the nights where John had to sleep on call at the surgery the nightmares came back, and the only time he slept soundly was with Sherlock beside him. How could he think that Mary was anything but the past? John braced himself mentally and put his hand on the doorknob. He fully intended to find out.

He had wanted to slam the door open dramatically and storm out yelling. That proved immediately impossible as Sherlock had been sitting close outside John’s bedroom and was hit and knocked over by the door as it flew open. As such, John’s first words were not the “You’re a piece of shit,” he had intended and rather were a deeply concerned “Shit, are you okay?”

Sherlock jumped to a standing position and grabbed the back of his head where it had taken most of the impact. “I’ll allow that I was out of line before, but I’m not sure I deserved that.”

“How was I supposed to know you were sitting out here?” John snapped, cross. “How long have you been there?”

“Two hours, six minutes, twenty-three seconds.”

“Lovely. Why, so you could throw more books at me the moment I came out?”

Sherlock looked down, apparently ashamed.

“John, I hadn’t intended to throw it at you. I was momentarily compromised and… I reacted poorly.”

“Poorly’s one word for it. I think I’d go with ‘I reacted like a massive git’.”

“I hardly feel as though I’m completely to blame. You’re the one who decided to try to go off secretly.”

“Because I knew you’d get angry if I told you beforehand! I’m sorry now that I didn’t, but Christ, I don’t think I’m in the wrong here. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but you’ve had a habit of following me and crashing dates I’ve been on in the past if you really didn’t approve. Not that—this wasn’t a date, but I know how you hate Mary and I wouldn’t put it an inch past you to show up and—”

“This is so tiresome, I can’t stand it. Is this really what people do in a relationship? Argue over who’s the most emotionally compromised?”

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ what people bloody do if they—”

Sherlock had had quite enough and kissed the remainder of John’s sentence out of him. John broke away, gasping.

“If you think you can get away with just—”

The detective cut him off again and John wasn’t quite sure of what he had been going to say. He quickly became only aware of ragged breathing and Sherlock pulling off his shirt, and then the wall against his back. He reached out blindly and ripped at the fabric that met his fingers, tearing to get to the cool skin underneath.

“That shirt,” Sherlock huffed, his lips trailing to the corner of John’s mouth and then down, slightly, to his neck, “was extremely expensive.”

John laced his fingers into the Sherlock’s hair and pulled him to eye level. “Does it look like I give a damn?”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was unusually soft. John kissed him hard, pulling at his hair in an attempt to be closer, deeper, anything that was humanly possible. Sherlock moaned, and John was so hard he could barely stand it. He pushed forward until they hit the opposite wall, working his hands downwards to undo the clasp on Sherlock’s trousers and yank them down. He bit Sherlock’s lower lip, earning another muffled groan.  

“I think I’d like to hear you apologise.” John murmured, placing a hand lightly over Sherlock’s erection. The detective arched up into it instinctively, but John pushed him back. “No, no. I’d like to know that you’re sorry.”

“Please, John—” he emitted a somewhat strangled noise.

“That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

“Hnnng- _fuck_ \- John, I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?”  John stared into Sherlock’s eyes, which were uncharacteristically glassy and vacant. The detective blinked hard, briefly coming back to reality,

“Stop… stop teasing me.”

“Is this teasing?” John took Sherlock’s cock in his hand fully and stroked, slow but firm; determined. The grey eyes rolled back slightly and went cloudy again. He received a moan and the pleasant bite of fingernails pressing crescents into his shoulders as a response. “Right now, you don’t get to tell me what to do.” He moved his hand faster, muffling the desperate noises Sherlock was making with another harsh kiss. And then, abruptly, he stopped.

“What—?”

“Now, I bet, you’re _really_ sorry. And I think this makes us even.”

John broke away from the detective, who was throbbingly close to the edge.

“You don’t really intend to just leave me like this?!”

The adrenaline that had been rushing through John was fading slightly, leaving him slightly frightened at how dominant he had just been.

“I think I do?”

“You know, it really doesn’t do well to make a play like this and _then_ choose to be indecisive.”

“Yeah, this was kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

“Clearly.”

For a moment they regarded each other silently, and then Sherlock more or less launched himself at John, using their momentum to move into the bedroom. He pushed John onto the bed and undid his still-intact belt and trousers.

“Sherlock—”

The detective bit John’s neck, hard, and then kissed the mark he left gently. The remainder of John’s sentence became a whimper.

“My turn.”  He moved his lips carefully down, pausing on John’s hipbone just above the edge of his pants. He bit down and simultaneously snapped the elastic above the red material. “I’d like to test a theory.”

“A wha—?”

“Shut up.”

It was incredibly easy for John to comply, as Sherlock proceeded to remove the pants and take the entirety of John’s cock into his mouth. John bit down on his own fist; it was almost too much.

“Ah, _Christ_.” he slurred, his free hand reaching down to tangle in Sherlock’s hair. The detective bobbed up and disconnected with a pop. John’s vision blurred.

“I assume that I am doing this correctly?”

“nnnn _don’tstop_ ” John managed.

Sherlock swirled his tongue around the tip, one hand stroking firmly. John could feel a tell-tale pressure building in his gut, and his grip on the detective’s hair tightened.

“Sherlock, I’m—” Sherlock swallowed him fully and John came, his eyes rolling back in his head and the world briefly going blank. He felt Sherlock’s hands reaching around him, grabbing for his arse, and he managed to recover enough to protest. “Not yet. Not now.”

“Alright.” Sherlock stopped advancing and scooted upwards to kiss John. His lips were swollen and _oh god_ , John realised, _he tastes like me._ “I take it my theory was correct.” He returned to kissing John.

“What theory?” John gasped, pulling away.

“I was curious as to, one, whether or not I was capable of performing fellatio as proficiently as—”

“As _whom?_ ”

“…as the women in the videos saved in your folder marked ‘Vacation 1992 DO NOT OPEN’, and two, if you enjoyed it.”

John felt himself turning red, which was especially laughable as he was completely undressed with the equally nude Sherlock Holmes on top of him.

“I forgot I had that,” he admitted, rolling the other man off him so that they were lying face to face instead. “And you shouldn’t go through my things.” He accidentally smiled at the futility of the latter statement.

“Why do I find it so appealing that you’re embarrassed? It’s uncanny.”

“You tell me, _consulting detective_.”

“Well, I believe it’s a combination of several factors. The first would be a primal instinct, activated by—.”

“Actually, don’t tell me. That was rhetorical. Let me guess.”

He ran a hand over the sharp cheekbones of the figure across from him, down to the fairly ridiculously inviting neck and chest which were only just returning to a hue untainted by bruising. Well, _that_ simply would not do. Sherlock shuddered at the soft contact, and then all further discussion ceased. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, don't worry, they'll talk it out . But angry sex is a good introductory stage.


	27. The Immolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been crazy with school starting up again, so updates may be a little sporadic for a while. Thanks for bearing with me!

“You’re leaving?”

“Unfortunately, I have to work for a living. And my shift starts in twenty minutes.”

Sherlock pouted as John exited the bed, looking around the room for clothing. He pulled on pants and bent to retrieve a jumper from a corner.

“I wouldn’t complain if you felt inclined to stay in that position.”

John shot back up and turned forward, embarrassed.

“Keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Well, that’s hardly a reasonable request coming from someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not nearly as discreet as you think you are. Perhaps consider keeping your mouth closed the next time you stare at me while I loosen my collar?”

“I do not—!”

“Oh, please.”

John threw a sock at the detective.

“I’m still angry with you, you know. Getting you in bed doesn’t induce amnesia.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I had thought our scores somewhat evened.” He tapped a fairly obvious mark on his neck.

“I hate to break it to you, but there’s more to a relationship than getting even with one another. Otherwise it would be more like war than dating.”

“Your tone indicates that you find the idea of a warring relationship unappealing.”

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Fine, clearly you’d like me to apologise again. John, I’m very sorry I threw a book at your head, even though there was no way it would have hit you as my calculations—”

John finished dressing and sat on a corner of the bed. “This isn’t just the book, okay? It’s the way you reacted that’s the problem here.”

“I’m not used to feeling… the way I did.”

“Jealous.”

Sherlock made a face. “Fine. Jealous.”

“That doesn’t excuse you. It’s fine to be a little jealous. Remember Irene Adler?”

“That you think I could have forgotten something so recent and significant—”

“That was rhetorical. I’m bringing it up because whenever she was flirting with you, I felt like committing murder. But I didn’t.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Not funny.”

“Consider my position. I’ve been privy to your string of girlfriends for years. You very nearly _proposed_ to Mary. Intentionally deceiving me in order to see her doesn’t look well.”

“Okay, but you overreacted.”

“Of course I overreacted, John! The idea of being without you makes me… it makes me decidedly uncomfortable.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

Sherlock stared blankly.

“You could just tell me you love me.” John suggested.

“I don’t understand the human need for emotional reassurance.”

“You’re human, you know. In case you forgot. ”

“Fine. _I love you_. Is that satisfactory?”

“More or less. And just to clear things up, I have absolutely no plans to leave you or cheat on you for as long as we’re together. Because for some reason I love you, too.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. “Oh, if we’re stating the obvious, you’re now five minutes late for your shift.”

“ _Shit._ ” John sprinted for the door.

* * *

 

John had not changed his ringtone since he had acquired his phone nearly five years ago, and it rung so rarely that he had never gave it any thought. As such, on an unfortunate Sunday when _London Calling_ began blaring at a fairly extreme volume at three in the morning, one really couldn’t blame Sherlock for snapping awake and instinctively attacking the nearest living thing, which was John. One could also not really blame John for immediately defending himself by punching his attacker squarely in the throat.

“WHAT? WHAT?”

Sherlock managed a gurgling noise in response.

“Fuck! Are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded, gasping. The Clash continued playing, prompting John to actually answer.

“Hello?!” He accidentally screamed the greeting, still in fight mode.

“Uh… hello? Is this John H. Watson?”

“Yes, why the hell are you calling me at—”

“Mr. Watson, there’s been an emergency. Your sister has you listed as her first contact. Would you please come down to St. Pancras hospital?”

“What? What’s happened? Is Harry okay?”

“She’s had a heart attack, and we’re trying to stabilise her in Intensive Care. It’s currently impossible to determine her condition.”

John felt his heart drop to his stomach. “I’m on my way.”

He stood up so fast his head spun, and he flipped on the lights. Sherlock squinted and coughed, trying to acclimate himself. “John, would you mind explaining to me what exactly is going on?”

“It’s Harry, you know, my sister. She’s had a heart attack.” Where were his bloody shoes?

“I see.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Are you indicating that I’m to accompany you?”

“Yes, I’m bloody indicating… why the hell wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t see how my presence would contribute towards your sister’s well-being.”

John stared for a moment. “Are you being serious?”

“I’ve just been forced awake and punched in the throat. What would make you think I was joking?”

“I don’t have time for this right now.” He procured a pair of shoes from under the bed and turned to leave.

“You seem angry.”

John released the doorknob and spun around.

“Fuck you, Sherlock. Seriously. Fuck you.”

Sherlock didn’t have time to respond as the door slammed in his face.

* * *

 

St. Pancras was smaller than St. Bart’s, and John felt almost immediately claustrophobic. He was well-adjusted to the smell of antiseptic, but now that it was personal he couldn’t stand it. It was all too much, too fast. A nurse rushed him up to the ICU.

Harry was unrecognisable under a mass of wires and tubes, and John was almost immediately pushed back as her cot was wheeled out to surgery. He managed to stop one of the doctors who lingered behind in her wake, and they walked out into the hallway.

“Look, can you please tell me what’s going on? How bad is it?”

The man placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Look, I’ll be honest; it’s all a bit sketchy right now. From what we can tell, she was a long-time drinker. Is that right?”

“…yes.” It hurt to say it.

“Well, it seems like she tried to quit all at once. Her heart was already weak, and it couldn’t handle the massive change. Three valves collapsed, and we’re going to have to attempt a triple bypass. In a best-case scenario, the surgery will go well and she’ll make a full recovery. In the worst case, her heart’s not going to be able to recover and we’ll put her on life support until you make a decision on what to do.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m sorry you have to have this all sprung on you at once. Are you here alone? It’s usually helpful to have some support through times like this.”

John’s throat tightened, and he felt an urge to scream or cry or shoot somebody do _anything_ but deal with reality.

“No, I’m by myself.”

The doctor smiled sympathetically. “Well, I’ll have a nurse show you to the waiting area and we’ll let you know as soon as there’s any development. Maybe give someone a call; a friend or loved one?” he waved over a nurse. “Please show Mr. Watson to the waiting room.”

“Doctor. I’m a doctor.” the distinction felt strangely important to him now that he was in a position he had previously only observed from a distance.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Again, we’ll let you know as soon as anything happens, Dr. Watson.”

John nodded tightly and followed the nurse down the hall. The lights overhead were unbearably bright, combining with the mental haze that always came with four AM to make everything seem somewhat surreal.

“I don’t know what I expected.”

“Sorry, sir?”

John realised he had been thinking aloud. The nurse looked confused.

“I just…for some reason, I let myself believe we could make it work. I let myself think he could learn to feel things like a normal person. But who am I kidding? He’ll never love anybody but himself.”

“Sir, are you alright? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Have you ever felt like… like you’ve had the life sucked out of you?”

The nurse looked around, clearly considering whether or not she should get help. “Not really, sir.”

John laughed weakly and completed the journey to the waiting room to begin his vigil. A muted television glowed over the occupants of the seats that lined the walls, who silently waited for fate to deal them a hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John just can't catch a break, huh?


	28. The Genesis

While Sherlock had gotten into the habit of sleeping at night, he really only did so because of John. Therefore, when John stormed out and left him to his own devices, he was fairly lost with what to do with the remaining time until the sun came up and London started breathing again, and he certainly wasn’t going to sleep if he was alone.

Of course, he should probably think about the fact that he’d just made John more upset than he had ever seen him before, although he found the entire matter somewhat confusing. List, then. Facts and observations:

  1. Harriet Watson was in the hospital. Heart attack, likely her alcoholism catching up.
  2. John was upset that his sister was in the hospital.
  3. John felt emotionally obligated to go see his sister.
  4. He had never formally met Harry, and had no personal emotional obligation to see her. Logical.
  5. John was angry that he wouldn’t accompany him. Illogical.
  6. His presence at the hospital would not improve Harry’s health.
  7. Therefore, his presence at the hospital could not make John less upset.
  8. He had nothing to personally gain by seeing Harry.
  9. John was a singularly capable human being, albeit of questionable observational ability.
  10. There was no reason for John to be angry with him.



It was rare for one of Sherlock’s deductions to be even slightly inconclusive, and it bothered him greatly. Clearly, he was missing some subtle piece of information, but—

_4:02 AM **MYCROFT:** John wants you there to support him, not for Harriet. –MH _

Oh.

_4:03 AM to: **MYCROFT:** Stop spying. I have control of the situation. –SH _

_4:03 AM **MYCROFT:** Not telling you this for your sake. –MH _

_4:03 AM to: **MYCROFT:** John doesn’t need me there. –SH _

_4:04 AM **MYCROFT:** Just because you’re emotionally incapable doesn’t mean he is. –MH _

 Sherlock placed his phone back on the nightstand, put off. How was it possible for people to need such emotional reassurance to function? How was is that they didn’t simply implode from the massive energy required to feel such—

_4:06 AM **MYCROFT:** He doesn’t realise that you’re not subject to the gravity of his situation. He expects that if you love him you’d be there for him. –MH_

How idiotic. And what did his brother know about love?

_Fuck you, Sherlock. Seriously. Fuck you._

And then again, perhaps he had been missing one very important set of data.

  1. He loved John, despite all the logic in the world.
  2. If he could make John happy, he would.
  3. John needed him.



Sherlock dressed quickly; pulled his Belstaff on with a jerk. He hated when his brother was right.

*

The waiting room had cleared out by five AM, doctors popping in and out and removing the people who waited for bad news. John could tell exactly what had happened the moment the men in white entered the room, before they said a word. There were certain mannerisms one adopted, certain ways that made it easier for you to tell someone that a person they loved dearly was dead.

And now he was alone, waiting for his own deliverance. John imagined that the sun was probably rising outside, but the only light in the room currently was coming from the television set. A lack of movement had prompted off the automatic fluorescents, and John couldn’t be bothered to move. The television had switched to static a long while ago, and nobody had cared to change it back. A hazy grey rectangle cascaded down from the box to the carpet; a spotlight for a dying man. The waiting hurt. John put his head in his hands and wished desperately to not be alone.

“Have you ever been in a crowded room and listened to the conversations around you?”

John snapped back up. The silhouette of what appeared to be Sherlock reclined a few seats away from him. How he had gotten there and not triggered the lights was a mystery.

“Sherlock?”

“I find myself doing it often, and every time it’s maddening. What trivial, petty creatures we are. How unbearable.”

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“And yet, I still find myself occasionally surprised. It’s fascinating that although we are all infinitesimally miniscule beings, we are all connected to one another. We can kill each other. We can care for each other. We are aware that we are never truly alone.” The light from the telly made the detective’s eyes glow in the dark. John mentally traced the outline of his brow, of his cheekbones. “So for every insult I make to human emotion, there is a meaning to trivial feeling. There is a world of social niceties and romantic gestures to which I am completely unaware. I didn’t understand why you could possibly need me here, as it was illogical. However, I see now that I cannot expect to work effectively if I only take into account the facts and make logical observations. The need for companionship in darkness is incredibly theoretical. I still can’t say I understand it, but I can conclude that if you need me here, John, I’m regretful that I ever hesitated to follow you.”

John stood, the lights flickered on. He moved over to sit directly next to Sherlock, and reached out to entwine his hand with an accepting leather glove.

“I’m too tired to make sense of anything you just said. You just make me so angry sometimes.”

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you’re here now.”

 

When at last a doctor entered bearing news, John had fallen asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a pretty short one, I've been ridiculously busy. Fear not, the next chapter will be interesting, to say the least.


	29. The Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watson siblings figure their shit out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for this update, life is crazy.

“Doctor Watson?”

John snapped awake and shot up, several hours of atrophying in a cheap seat making his knees creak. Sherlock also rose, standing next to him.

“Yes?”

“I have good news. The bypass went extremely well. We inserted two stints, and with careful effort Harriet should make a quick recovery. Right now, she’s still anaesthesiacised, but you’re welcome to go in to see her. She’ll probably be awake in an hour or two.”

John felt like the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Almost unconsciously, he leaned into Sherlock, who put a cautious arm around his shoulder for a moment.

“Oh, thank God. Thank _you_.”

“It’s just my job. I’d be happy to show you and—I’m sorry, who is this?” he indicated Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes,” came the icy answer.

“Like the detective guy? The one who everyone thought was a fake?”

“I am the consulting detective to the Scotland Yard. Congratulations on reading the tabloids in your free time. Money well-spent.”

The doctor frowned. “Actually, I used to follow your blog.”

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, really? You don’t say?”

“Sherlock, stop. Let him be.” John warned, tired.

“Fine. But at least allow me to suggest to our lying friend that telling the cashier the mags he’s buying are for his wife every time he goes down to the vendor after lunch is completely ineffective. Furthermore, it’s painfully obvious that he’s never been married, and his reading habits are about as charming as his addiction to prescription opioids.”

The three men regarded each other silently for a moment.

“We can just, uh, find our own way over.” John tried to sound apologetic.

“I suggest you get there in the next ten seconds, because if you aren’t gone by then I’m going to punch your friend out.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder very obviously and winked at the fuming surgeon. “Boyfriend, actually,” he corrected, and then swept away, leaving John to mumble amends and catch up.

“You know,” John huffed, falling in stride, “you could just try to be a _little_ kinder to people. Especially people who’ve saved my sister.”

“What’s the time?”

“Sure, ignore me. That’s fine. It’s eight, on the nose. Why does that—”

Sherlock stopped mid-stride, grabbed John, and kissed him so intensely that for a moment the placid buzz of the hospital seemed to stop. Unfortunately, John remembered that he needed to breathe to survive and time picked up again in short order.

“What?” he managed.

“Clarifying.”

“Okay.”

“If you intend for me to stay here, I’m going to need some sort of incentive.”

“Your incentive should be me not getting mad enough that I never let you do that again.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’d jump me the second I undid my collar.”

“That’s—! No! Piss off.” Sherlock swept away again. “Where are you going?!”

“Unless I’ve been brilliantly deceived, we’re here to see your sister,” the detective called back.

“Shit. Right.” John jogged to catch up again.

“How long do you intend to prolong this visit?”

“I don’t know. You have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“Incorrect. I have the ability to focus intently on any or every subject of my choosing. In the time it takes you to form an opinion, I’ve gleaned most to all relevant information and have shifted my attentions elsewhere. My attention span would be best compared to a camera or a photocopier.”

“And yet you still don’t have to ability to get over your massive ego.”

“I embrace my self-confidence. Insecurity is a waste of time and being humble is inefficient and infuriating.”

“Do you hear yourself when you talk?”

Sherlock stopped suddenly again, and John had to check his balance as he tried to similarly halt.

“After you,” Sherlock indicated the door they were now in front of. John reached up to kiss him quickly.

“If she wakes up, I’m begging you, play nice. She’s probably going to hate you.”

“What a lovely introduction.”

John rolled his eyes. “You don’t know Harry.”

The pair entered the room.

* * *

 

Harry Watson did not look well. She had inherited the red hair that had skipped over John (fortunately, he had always thought), but it now looked washed-out and more grey than anything. Her face was gaunt, yellowed, and her eyes were dark, even in sleep. Tubes protruded from her nose and wires extended from every part of her body to monitor every rhythm and movement she produced. Her torso was bandaged heavily, but John could perfectly imagine the pattern of stitches beneath where her heart had been exposed not hours before. The LCD beeped steadily, providing a familiar but uncomfortable background noise.

John made his way over to the bed and found his sister’s hand through the mass of wiring. It was thin and cool, but it was still the same hand that had pulled his hair and broken his nose and showed him how to hold a gun and how to write cursive.

“It’s hard to tell, I know, but she was actually always the prettiest one in the family.”

“I don’t find it hard to tell at all.”

Was Sherlock being _nice_?

“Mum always said she’d be a heartbreaker.”

“Ironic.”

Nope.

“Don’t be a prick.”

Harriet’s eyes briefly fluttered open and closed again.

“She’s starting to come out of it,” John noted.

Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable. “It might be prudent to—”

“AHHHHHJESUSCHRISTSONOFABITCH”

Harry was quite suddenly awake and thrashing about, grabbing at the wires extending from her body. John jumped to try to hold her down.

“Harry, Harry, stop! It’s John, it’s me, you’re in the—”

“WHY DOES EVERYTHING HURT?”

“Stop, don’t pull that out, just, hold on.” John pushed the button to ring for help, and within moments several nurses had rushed in and were holding down Harry and giving her a sedative. She stopped thrashing eventually. A very pretty brunette nurse flicked the IV bag and smiled gently.

“Miss Watson, I’m sure you’re pretty confused right now. Basically, you had a heart attack, and you’re in St. Pancras hospital. You underwent some pretty serious surgery, but it all took very well and you should be just fine after some therapy and rest. You’re going to be in a fair amount of pain for a while while you heal, but I just gave you some painkillers and a bit of sedative to calm you down and make it hurt less. You brother’s right here.”

“Hi?” John waved. His sister looked at him groggily.

“Whize Jawn hurr?”

“Because I’m your brother? And you almost died?”

“Whozzat?” Harry flopped one hand in Sherlock’s direction.

“That’s Sherlock.”

“From yerr blawwg?”

John looked to the nurse. “Is she going to be like this for a long time?”

“No, she’s probably going to lose consciousness again in a minute or two. When she wakes up she should be fully functional, at least mentally.”

“Jawn, sheez pretty.” Harry pointed at the nurse, who blushed.

“Well, thank you. I’m going to leave you with your brother now, okay?”

“Ah like hurr face.”

“Harry, go back to sleep,” John sighed.

“Piss… uh… awf.”

The nurse left and Harry slid into a more comatose state. John glanced over to Sherlock, who looked like he was about to explode,

“Are you okay?”

“John. I. Am. So. Bored.”

“Oh my God, you’re like a bloody child! Go out in the hallway and… deduce passer-by or something. Or go to the morgue and do whatever.”

“The morgue! Excellent!” He practically sprinted for the door.

“Sure. Whatever. Just come back if I text you.”

Then John was alone with Harry, wondering how the tally of genuinely normal people he had in his life had dropped to 0.

* * *

 

“Jesus Christ, I totally thought I was dreaming everything. But you’re really here.”

John snapped awake, having drifted off in the seat by his sister’s bed. Harry had woken up and the nurse from before was taking an unnecessarily long time to change her pillow.  

“John, why don’t I have heart attacks more often?”

“I guess you’re awake, then.”

“Good guess.”

The nurse finally finished and smiled at Harry. “Is everything okay here?”

“Do you think I could buy you out full time, uh… what’s your name?”

“It’s Janet.” the nurse giggled.

“Okay, that’s enough, she’s fine.” John was feeling rather put out. “I think you have other patients.”

“You’re no fun. Bye, Janet.” Harry waved flirtatiously as the nurse left, and then turned to face her brother. “Well, you’re exactly like you always are.”

“I just can’t believe that you can have a heart attack, wake up, and immediately start flirting.”

“You’re being homophobic.”

John laughed so hard he tipped out of his seat.

“What’s so funny? Jesus, are you on drugs or something?”

“N-no, it’s just…” John wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s just that homophobic is probably the last thing I am.”

“I mean, I know you’re cool with me, but you’ve always been a pretty traditional fucker.”

“Harry, I am… I am _dating_ Sherlock.” it almost felt absurd to say it to his sister.

“ _Really?_ Get the fuck out. Was he here before? I feel like he was here.”

“Yeah, you might not remember. He’s off somewhere else now.”

“But shit, you’re actually fucking the guy? You mean all the little Watsons are gay now?”

“No, no, it’s not like that, exactly. I mean, it’s not that we haven’t… we haven’t… it’s all very sudden. And I’m figuring things out. If I’m honest, he’s been such a fucking psycho lately that I’m not sure we’re ever going to figure things out.”

“I’ve never even seen the guy. You’re actually, like, in love with him? Not just a weird mid-life crisis thing?”

“Why are we even talking about this? You just almost died. We have to talk about that.”

“This is a lot more interesting.”

“We’ll get back to it. First, Harry, what the fuck did you do to yourself?”

Harry huffed dramatically. “I wanted to get clean, okay? I wanted to move on, and rehab is fucking expensive and it’s for wasters. So I just thought I’d stop. It was okay for a day or two, but then all of a sudden it got… it got bad. And then next thing I know I’m screaming really loudly and my chest felt like it was going to fucking tear in half and my fucking neighbours are banging down my door. And now I’m here.”

“You could have called me, or… you can always get help, Harry.”

“We’ll you’re here now, right? And I don’t feel like I’m going to die if I don’t have a drink, which is… new.”

“That’s good.”

“That’s fucking great. I mean, I can’t remember the last time I was sober for more than… shit, I can’t remember the last time I was totally sober.”

“I wish it hadn’t had to happen like this, but I guess it’s good that this is happening.”

“You guess a lot. Is that why you’re having boy problems?”

“Don’t! Don’t call them… that.”

“What? You are. You look like a fucking mess.”

“Look, it’s not a big deal. It’s just that Sherlock isn’t… he’s not like anybody else, and it’s hard to deal with. And sometimes, lately, I’ve been wondering if it’s worth it.”

“Yeah, I’ve never met him, but from what I can tell he’s kinduva pisser.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Well, I mean, it seems to me like you’re not even in it all the way yet. So what’s there to worry about?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You haven’t screwed him yet, right? So it’s not like you’ve consummated your little relationship. Plus it’s not like you’ve ever been super gay before, so how do you even know you want to go through with it at all?”

“This isn’t a sex thing. I certainly… I absolutely _want_ to, uh, go through with it, I just don’t know if I should.”

“But you really love this guy?”

“I really do.”

“Well, I mean, I don’t really know what to say then. I don’t even know who he is, really. I read both of your blog things when I can but that’s not exactly the same as knowing either of you.”

The door banged open suddenly, and Sherlock stormed in.

“John, explain to the automatons they have running this poor excuse for a surgery that I’m completely qualified to perform autopsies.”   

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” Harry looked extremely surprised.

“Obviously.”

“Sherlock, you could try saying hello to her.”

Sherlock’s glare could have melted iron. “ _Hello._ Now if you’re quite done with your little power trip, stop telling me what to do and use your lauded abilities to get me access to the body I was testing.”

“I don’t have any authority here.”

“Then what good are you?!”

John tried to stay calm, but his sister wasn’t quite so disciplined.

“Christ, you’re bloody bitchy. Whatever creepy shit you were doing can’t possibly be that important.”

“How could you possibly understand…?”

“I’m going to lose my temper, and I really don’t feel like doing that.”

Sherlock collected himself. “May I speak to you privately?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you in the hall,” John looked to his sister. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.” she replied.

John followed Sherlock out to the hall, which was mostly silent.

“What is it?”

“John, I have made every possible attempt to be patient, but I cannot continue here if I’m prevented from doing anything even remotely stimulating.”

“Okay, just let me finish talking to Harry, and then we’ll go. Just stay out here for a minute.”

“A minute is a measure typically used when one really intends to spend far longer than one mi—”

John ran a hand up the back of Sherlock’s head and kissed him hard to shut him up. He might have been a little too convincing, because the detective responded with a muffled groan and pulled John into him, forceful. John broke away, wishing he didn’t have to.

“Just… I’ll make it fast.”

“Do try.”

John re-entered the room, his head now spinning.

“You know there’s a window, right? I mean, good for you, but I didn’t need to see your tongue down the bloke’s throat.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Yeah. And anyway, are you sure that’s the man you’re dating? Because he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“How would you know?” John said, cross.

“I’m gay, not blind! Why are you arguing with him instead of shagging him?”

“There’s a bit more to it than that.”

“John, do you have any idea how stupid you sound?”

“You’re being a prick. You don’t get it.”

“I don’t get it? Look, I read your blogs. I get that he’s the isolated genius type. But I also get that you are pretty mad for him, and if the little exchange I just witnessed meant anything, you’ve gotten through to him and he’s keen on you, too. So he’s emotionally retarded? Big fuckin’ deal. It seems to me like he’s trying really damn hard to keep up with you, and you have no idea. So stop boo-hooing over yourself. You try to tell yourself that you’re into the comforting, normal type, but you’re not. You love every second you spend with that man, and he is pretty obviously fascinated by you. So learn to deal with the fact that he’s going to be a manic bastard ninety percent of the time, and stop being so bloody angsty.”

“I feel like you’re probably not the most qualified person to be giving me relationship advice.”

“I feel like you’re being a twat because you know I’m right.”

John sighed. He hated it when Harry won arguments. “I’m not being angsty.”

“John, I’m going to try to say this as plainly as I can: You are an idiot, and you’re very needy. Go have sex with the man in the hallway because you will literally never do better than that, and I feel like you don’t realise it. Seriously. I think the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in two years is making me feel like I need to at least make sure everyone else does.”

“Can you not talk about _that_ with me? I’m your brother.”

“Can you stop talking to me and go do him?”

Sherlock stuck his head in the room.

“I feel that I should inform you that I’m incredibly bored, it’s been three minutes, and in about thirty seconds I’m going back to the morgue.”

“Hey, you.” Harry addressed the detective. “I have a question for you.”

“Congratulations.”

“Okay, fuck you too.”

“John, your sister is almost as eloquent as you are.”

“Wow, you’re really not winning any points for yourself here, handsome.”

“Sherlock, go back outside.”

“No, I want to ask him my question.”

“Then ask!”

“Fine.” Harry sniffed indignantly. “You’re perfect for each other, you’re both arses. My question, Sherlock, is this: If you had to choose between quitting your work or never seeing John ever again, which would you go for?”

Sherlock frowned. “I refuse to grace ludicrous rhetoric with an answer.”

“But say you had to. Say somebody held a gun up to John’s head right now and made you choose.”

“You’re describing an illogical and unlikely scenario.”

“And you’re avoiding my question.”

John glared at his sister. “That’s a stupid question, and he doesn’t have to answer it.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I’d actually really like to know what he’d go for.”

Harry looked expectantly towards the doorway. Sherlock met her gaze, challenging. “I’d be unable to survive without either one,” he said coolly, and then closed the door behind him as he left for the morgue again.

“There, are you happy? You got to make everything awkward, like you usually do.”

“You could be a little nicer to me. I did just almost die.”

“I’ve been very nice to you, actually. You know that pretty nurse who keeps checking in on you, Janet or whatever?”

Harry sighed dreamily. “She has a perfect arse.”

“…great. Well, I slipped her your number when she was leaving before.”

“You did that for me? John! I almost feel badly for stealing your prom date back when we were kids.”

“You did it twice, actually. Don’t make me regret this.”

“I’ll try very hard not to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I feel a little faint and I need to ring for the nurse an obnoxious number of times.”

“Behave yourself.”

Harry winked at him and John gave her a hug, careful not to disturb her bandages. As he made to follow after Sherlock, his sister called after him. “If he makes you happy, John, he’s worth the effort.”

John glanced back. “I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”

His phone buzzed as he made his way down the hall.

_11:26 AM **SHERLOCK:** I would choose you. –SH _

 


	30. The Alacrity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this update is so tiny and took so long, life's been crazy. I pinky promise the next one will be worth your while ;)

John didn’t mention the text, but as Sherlock practically sprinted out of St. Pancras, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was really true, or how he felt about it. There was a certain responsibility that came with being the most absolutely important thing in someone’s life. As he followed the hyperactive detective outside, he knew they’d have to talk about it eventually. But not just yet.

“Bloody bright out,” he mumbled, the sun fairly blinding after the artificially lit hospital.

“Your deductions aren’t improving, but they are accurate.”

“Thanks.”

“It was intended as an agreement, not a compliment.”

John flagged down a cab, his sigh materialising mistily before him in the bitingly cold air.

“I wasn’t thanking you for that; that was just you being a prick as usual. I was thanking you for sticking it out for me back there. I know it must be pretty infuriating to have nothing to do for so long.”

He slid into the car’s warm interior and Sherlock followed.

“I’ve become somewhat practised at biding my time, I suppose. Marylebone, Baker Street.”

The cabbie nodded and pulled away.

“Harry’s always been difficult. But maybe she’ll be a bit better now.”

“Statistically, she has a thirty-two percent chance of making a full recovery and staying sober.”

“Not promising.”

“Under your administrations, her chances are considerably greater.”

“Was _that_ a compliment?”

“That was an educated… prediction. Your credentials are expansive, and your moral character is—”

“I’m going to pretend it was a compliment. So thank you.”

Sherlock grimaced as though he were swallowing an ember. “You’re welcome.”

John smiled at the frustrated man sitting by his side.

“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This relationship thing.”

“It’s difficult, yes. I find it somewhat trying to have to constantly check my thought process to your level.”

“You don’t have to always do that. I get it if you just want to do your own thing. Whatever it is you do inside your head.”

Sherlock faced John fully, the sunlight through the windows of the cab making his eyes glow intensely.

“My thoughts are as often self-destructive as they are deductive. Your keeping me from them is generally immensely gratifying. So long as I’m not attempting to solve a case, I’d have it no other way.”

John reached out to run his hand over the contours of the detective’s face; the sharp cheekbones to the severe corners of his lips. Sherlock tensed under the touch, but allowed it, his eyes questioning.

“I don’t understand it.”

“You’ve a habit of being incredibly cryptic.”

“Just… how did I never see before recently how much I… it was all just so unclear. But I always have felt the same way, I suppose, I just never understood it. But it’s… Sherlock, I am not the type to say it often, but I love you. Somehow.”

“You’re nervous.”

“No I’m not.”

“Your eyes are dilated, your pulse has accelerated, you’re sweating, you’ve gone slightly pale, and your gaze is shifty.”

John took a deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

“John, while I’m aware that my intelligence can seem superhuman, I am not telepathic.”

“We can… bloody hell, this feels strange to say. If you still want to, in the future, I think I’m ready to, uh, y’know. Go through with everything?”

“Sex?”

“Well, you don’t have to yell it!”

“I didn’t. Your perception is altered by your—”

“Oh God, shut up. Just… I said it, okay? I’m ready.”

“Fine.”

The cab stopped just short of 221b and the pair exited, John pressing an overly high sum into the cabbie’s palm. John rummaged in his pocket for the key.

“John, the text I sent you earlier. It wasn’t meant to pressure you to do anything. If you feel forced by—”

“I don’t, no, not at all.”

“I only meant that—”

“Sherlock, I have spent approximately five years waiting for a time when I’d be able to say this, and here it is: The moment we get inside, I would really, really like you to fuck me, because I’m tired of waiting.”

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

The door swung open, and Sherlock pulled John inside urgently. 


	31. The Asterism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, as you like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay, thanks to everyone for sticking around. Didn't really edit past a spellcheck, so my apologies for anything stupid. Once I finish the whole fic I'll go back and polish it up.

“So now wha--”

Sherlock kissed him desperately, releasing every ounce of bored anxiety from the hospital. He moved to push John back up against the wall, but John maneuvered out of it and pulled Sherlock onto the stairs.

“Bedroom.”

Sherlock huffed frustratedly and sprinted past John, reaching to grab a handful of John’s coat and pull him after. They reached the bed in short order, and John grabbed Sherlock by the lapel to bring him down to kiss him again. The overcoats were quickly discarded, and John tore at Sherlock’s shirt hard enough to send a button flying into oblivion.

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock growled, shrugging it off completely and reaching down to stroke John’s burgeoning erection through his trousers. John arched up into him, raking his fingers down the cool expanse of the detective’s back.

“…you’re unnecessary.” He moved downwards to grab Sherlock’s arse through his trousers, and received a muffled groan in response. The detective pushed forward until they fell on the mattress together.  John pulled Sherlock on top of him, rather pleased with the way their position allowed him to reach around to pull them closer. He could feel Sherlock hard against him, pushing down to create a friction that made the edges of his vision blur.

“…damned thing off” Sherlock mumbled the end of his sentence, breaking away briefly to remove John’s jumper. It joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. John ran his fingers over the expanse of Sherlock’s torso, lingering on one particularly jagged scar near his heart.

“Sherlock, if we’re going to do this—”

The detective cut him off with a bruisingly keep kiss that left John gasping.

“Listen, just… what was I talking about?”

Sherlock smirked, moving his lips downwards to John’s chest, then abdomen, and then to the sensitive skin just above his trousers. he bit down slightly and then looked up at John, eyes blazing.

“Something about if we’re going to do this.”

“ _Christ_ ,” John moaned, Sherlock’s hand now kneading at his cock through his pants. He was somewhat conscious of his trousers being pulled away. He strained into the touch, on edge. A brief moment of clarity allowed him to grab Sherlock and pull him back up slightly.

“Sherlock,” he hasped, “just… I need to know this is worth it. I can’t lose you again.”

Sherlock stared at John in a way that made John’s erection twitch.

“John, I thought I was fairly implicit earlier.”

“Wha?” John could feel himself drifting away. Sherlock kissed him back to reality.

“I choose you, for whatever it might be worth. Consider this a consummation.”

“nnnokay.”

Sherlock dropped back down and pulled aside John’s pants, taking his cock into his hand.  The tip leaked slightly. He moved his hand from the base up, excruciatingly slow.

“Ah, fuck, Sherlock, don’t,” John gasped. The detective raised himself so that he was looking down into John’s eyes again, one brow raised inquisitively. “It… I… want to just…” John was rapidly losing sight of what had possessed him to make the man above him stop _anything_. He lifted himself up to kiss Sherlock hungrily, biting softly on his lower lip as he broke away. “…if you do that now, I’m not going to be able to, uh,”

“What?” Sherlock was trying to look annoyed, but his gaze was that of complete mesmerisation. As an answer, John kissed him again and pushed his hands into the back of Sherlock’s pants to grab his arse again. Sherlock made a muffled noise of realisation and grabbed the bedsheets hard; the cloth wrinkling between his fingers. He pressed down onto John, grinding hard against him. John groaned and removed his hands to try and undo the detective’s belt; frustrated at the fact that they both found it necessary to wear so much clothing.

Eventually they succeeded in completely disrobing, and faced a moment of sobriety. John was positioned on Sherlock’s lap, his legs wrapped around just tightly enough to keep them both pressed against one another; throbbingly hard. Sherlock broke his lips from the scar on John’s shoulder and pulled John against him briefly, his fingers biting pleasantly into the flesh of John’s lower back. 

“John.” His dark voice brought John’s attention back. The detective’s pupils were blown, his hair falling over the outlines of his face in a way that was both ridiculously dishevelled and unconsciously appealing. John traced his thumbs over the detective’s cheekbones, the rest of his fingers lingering on Sherlock’s now well-reddened neck.

“Yeah?”

“Could I…?”

_Sherlock was asking permission? For what? For… right._

John leaned in to taste the other man’s mouth, running his tongue over the pout of the lower lip. He felt the detective shudder and pull their bodies together again; one hand trailing down John’s spine. John mumbled a response into the soft skin just below Sherlock’s jaw:

“Okay.”

Sherlock removed John from on top of him and leaned over to retrieve his Belstaff from the floor. He rummaged through one of the pockets.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” John whined.

“Looking for this, unless you’d rather not,” Sherlock found a packet of lube and held it out.

John was instantly flustered. “Oh, no, of course that’s… why do you keep that in your pocket?”

“Preparedness, John, is more often than not the deciding factor in—”

“Stop, no, shut up, never mind.” John pushed the coat aside and kissed Sherlock into silence, resuming their earlier position. Sherlock began trying to simultaneously open the packet and pull John against him, which he eventually succeeded in. He looked pointedly at John.

“This is what you want.” It wasn’t a question, really. Practically nothing was ever a question with him, just another deduction. John met his gaze fully, suddenly aware that he had only one thing to say.

“I trust you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped. He felt as though he should be asking something, a question. It wasn’t a question of whether or not he loved John, it was a question of how in the world could any human being ever have succeeded in making him _feel_ that way.

“You fascinate me.”

John smiled crookedly.

“Well, brilliant. We’re on the same page, then.”

“Moving on.”

“Right.”

Sherlock kissed John hungrily, leaning forward until John was lying back with Sherlock on top of him. He pulled away, leaving them both gasping for air. He squeezed a decent amount of lubricant onto one finger and reached down, moving it carefully around John’s hole and then easing in, slowly. John gasped, grabbing the sheets with one hand and Sherlock’s back with the other for purchase.

“Is this—?”

“ _Yes._ ” 

The detective moved in further, slowly. John’s vision was flushed with sparks; attempting to accommodate the combination of discomfort and burning pleasure. He was tensed, though, nervous, blocking himself off.

“John, you have to relax.”

“Sherlock, I…” he was panting. “it’s…”

“Let yourself go.”

 _You love him. You can let this happen. It’s all fine._ John breathed out and felt himself give in, and Sherlock’s finger slid in all the way. John moaned, suddenly aware that he wanted more. He wanted Sherlock to fill him completely, to be inside him. He _needed_ it.

“S-Sherlock. I want you,” John spluttered, hardly able to speak. “Please.” He was dimly aware of Sherlock kissing him, and then of the finger withdrawing. He watched, immobile, as Sherlock squeezed more lubricant into his palm and then spread it over the length of his cock, which was straining out and leaking incessantly now. He pressed it cautiously to John.

“You’re sure of this?”

“ _Please_ ,” John begged.

Sherlock pushed forward, letting John take him in slowly until he was completely filled. John’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he was sure that he was saying something but had no idea what it was. Sherlock began a careful rhythm, thrusting in and out in time with John. John bucked against him, his hold on reality dangerously in balance. Sherlock slammed one hand onto the headboard, ecstatic.

“John,” he moaned, thrusting harder, his free hand moving on John’s cock, still slick with lubricant.

“Ah, _fuckinghell_ don’t. Stop.” John’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his mind somewhere between _too much_ and _never enough_.

“I c—I’m going to—”

“Come inside me.” That one thought, at least, was coherent, and John knew it was exactly what he wanted.

Sherlock came, calling out John’s name, and John followed quickly after, calling out a string of various curses. Sherlock rolled off to the side, one hand finding its way over to rest on John’s. John looked over to the _extremely_ shagged-looking Sherlock Holmes.

“Why did it take us so bloody long to get around to doing that?”

“A combination of sexual insecurities, mutual denial, self-discovery—”

“Rhetorical.”

“Ah.”

“But, Sherlock?”

The detective rolled over so they were face-to-face. “Hm?”

“However unclear it all was before, for better or for worse, I really do love you.”

“If I never say it again, understand it’s because I feel it’s a terribly inadequate and overused sentiment and I am particularly opposed to its frequent expression. But nonetheless: I love you, also.”

John smiled.

“Now that we’re quite done being sentimental, I was considering earlier an experiment that might definitively prove the link between human—”

“ _Oh my God_ , you can’t just let me have this _one_ moment?”

 


	32. The End?

**_ One Year Later _ **

 

* * *

 

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with making these a regular thing.”

“I don’t need these to be a regular thing. I just… I just needed to make sure of things.”

“I haven’t seen you in almost two years, John. You have to be a little clearer than that. What’s on your mind?”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly aware of every detail in the small office. The crack in the upper left corner of the window. The dead leaves at the base of the decorative plant. The dust on the toe of his therapist’s flats.  He wasn’t sure if any of it meant anything, but at least he was observing. He smiled to himself, momentarily preoccupied with imagining the dramatics with which Sherlock would undoubtedly be rolling his eyes at his internal monologue.

“What are you thinking about right now?”

“What?”

“You just smiled.”

“Oh. Right. Well, that’s part of why I’m here, I guess. I’m not sure what to do.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you unless you give me a little more to go off of.”

John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m being dodgy. I’ll just come out and say it, I guess. I’ve been, uh, more or less dating Sherlock for the last year or so. And lately I was thinking that… oh, it’s rubbish. He’d laugh.”

The woman sitting across from him raised both eyebrows. “John, you realise the last time we talked you were dating a woman and clinically depressed, right? Rather big development.”

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have even come. This is stupid.”

“No, it’s not stupid. You’re telling yourself that because you’re embarrassed that you came here. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. From what I can tell thus far, you’re doing worlds better than last we talked. You look happy. Ridiculously happy, even.”

“This is all just still kind of new to me, I guess. I mean, it’s been a year. I’m used to how things work now. It’s just so… I can’t describe it.”

“So what’s bothering you?”

“Okay, I want to… I’d like to…I want to ask Sherlock if we might get married. Nothing fancy, you know, just to sort of make everything official.”

“And you’re nervous?”

John exhaled heavily. “I’m just feeling very conflicted. We get on well because we don’t talk about commitment, it’s just sort of there. And I don’t want to ruin anything, because it’s… well, it’s far from perfect; he’s a total arse most of the time. But I feel better than I ever remember feeling before.”

“Well, I’ve never met Sherlock, but from what I’ve read he sounds somewhat withdrawn. Is that accurate?”

“Withdrawn?” John laughed out loud. “Two months ago I asked him if he wouldn’t mind turning off the lights when he left a room once in a while, and then yesterday he woke me up at three in the bloody morning to tell me about the futility of one man trying to conserve electricity.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s… oh, withdrawn isn’t word enough for Sherlock.”

“Well, John, I’m not sure what to tell you here. It seems to me that you’re clearly quite taken with him. You’ve always seemed that way, honestly, but now it’s quite real. I’m not in your shoes, and I’ve never met the man, but if you know that he loves you unconditionally I don’t see why bringing up the idea of marriage is such a terrible notion. A proposal doesn’t have to be out of the blue, you know. In fact, I typically recommend against that. You should at least talk about it before surprising your significant other, so there are no misconceptions.”

“That makes sense. I doubt I’d ever be able to surprise him, anyway.”

“Ultimately, it’s all up to you. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds… quite reasonable.”

“Our thirty minutes are almost up. Whatever you end up doing, I wish you the best of luck. Please don’t hesitate to schedule another appointment. Even if you’re absolutely happy, having a neutral party to talk to can always help.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Alright. Have a lovely day. It was good to see you again, and to see you doing so much better.”

“Thanks. You too.”

* * *

 

“Left.”

Mud flew out from under the soles of John’s boots as he turned to try to keep up with Sherlock, who was changing direction again without warning. The park they had been sprinting through tapered off into a side street.

“Where are we even going?”

“Here.” Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John ran into him full-on. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders to keep them both from falling. Rain poured from the slate of the sky relentlessly, hitting the pavement and bringing the ambient sound around the pair to a dull roar.

“Christ, sorry.”

“Fine.” Without releasing his hold, Sherlock pulled John in to kiss him quickly.

“What? Why?”

“We made good time. By my calculations we have about two minutes and four seconds until our mark gets to exactly this point, thinking he’s successfully eluded us.”

“Then there was no reason for making me run like some sort of lunatic for a mile there,” John gasped, still trying to catch his breath. “Now what?”

“Now we wait. Let me have your gun.”

“Absolutely not.”

Sherlock pushed the mass of hair that the rain had plastered to his face back and glared. “You know me well enough to—”

“What do you need it for? Are you going to shoot the bloke?”

“Don’t be daft; obviously I’m not going to shoot him. I was going to create a distraction so that when he gets close to us he won’t just immediately turn back and force us back on a chase again.”

“I’m sure I could just as easily…”

“Five.”

“What? What’s five?”

“Four.”

“What the shit are you counting?”

“Three.”

“Stop it.”

“Two.”

“I—”

In a fluid movement Sherlock grabbed John and kissed him again, buying half a second of surprise in which he grabbed the pistol from John’s waistband, clicked off the safety, and shot a window on the top floor of a building across the street.

“You son of a—”

What Sherlock had spawned from never became exactly clear because at that moment a successfully distracted art thief rounded a corner and ran square into John, knocking them both to the ground.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

John was met quickly with a square kick to the jaw, but spun around to kick out the ankles of the other man as he attempted to get up. He recovered and threw himself over the thief; pinning him down with an arm to the neck. He heard the tell-tale click of a blade opening, and was too slow to block the man’s arm as he brought the knife up to his neck.

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock’s voice cut through the roaring of the storm as he pointed the gun at the head of the prone figure in front of him. “Unless you’re supremely confident in your luck. There is an eighty percent likelihood that one bullet from this distance would stop your motor functions before you could hit a vein.”

John felt the knife drop away, and the man beneath him went slack. The blade fell to the ground.

“Look, I was just doing my job, alright? I’m part of a business.”

“Is that what they’re calling the black market now?” John kicked the knife away and stood, stepping back to stand beside Sherlock. The thief rose shakily, holding his hands up.

“What are you two gonna do to me, anyway? You don’t look like the fuzz.”

“No, but I consult for them. Very successfully. John, handcuffs. Right pocket.”

“Got ‘em.” He clicked them onto the reluctant wrists of the incriminated individual, who looked decidedly defeated.

“And now we wait, as London’s finest have undoubtedly gotten lost.” Sherlock handed the gun back to John, who put the safety back on and replaced it.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to warn me that I’m going to get run over and then immediately held at knifepoint.”

“It would do if you would just comply with my requests in circumstances where I clearly have the superior knowledge of the current situation to you.”

“God, if I didn’t love you, I think I’d punch you in the face right now.”

“You have before.”

“That’s true.”

The thief cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, are the fuzz actually coming, or…”

“Shut up!” both John and Sherlock snapped simultaneously.

“Christ, get a room.”

Any room sounded like a decided improvement over the freezing rain, John agreed silently. Sirens became audible in the distance.

“I believe those are for you.” Sherlock nodded in the direction of the sound. The sirens grew louder as the police cars came into view, eventually skidding to a stop beside the three waterlogged figures. Lestrade jumped out.

“I don’t care how many bloody cases you solve, Sherlock, texting me ‘Camberwell’ is not specific enough for me to find you in any reasonable amount of time.”

“It would be if you—”

“Don’t start, please, just don’t.” The inspector grabbed the culprit by his collar and shoved him into the back of the car. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of grand theft. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence,” He slammed the door shut. “And fucking good riddance.” he added, mostly to himself.

“Bad day?” John asked the DI.

“Not really. I’m just a bit tired of chasing after you two constantly.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh. I suppose I should be used to it by now.” He signalled at the other cars, which began to pull away. “Did you fire shots or something? Just got a call on the way over.”

“Window across the street.”

“Why the hell was that necessary?”

“It provided a convenient distraction,” Sherlock explained, impatient.

“Whatever. Not my issue for now.”

“How responsible of you.”

“Hm. You two need fare or a ride somewhere?”

“We’re quite sufficient as is.” Sherlock snipped.

“Alright. Well, thanks. Again.”

Lestrade ducked into the car and left as well, leaving John and Sherlock alone on the street again.

“Why didn’t we catch a ride? I’m bloody freezing.”

“Police cars are abhorrent. We’ll get a cab.”

“If I get pneumonia and die, I’m blaming you.”

“Duly noted.”

The pair began to walk towards a busier street in companionable silence. The rain was continuing, but had lessened from a downpour to a steady shower. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock took John’s hand, linking their arms together. John glanced at the detective’s face; pale with the cold and nearly lost in thought. His eyes flickered over to meet’s John’s briefly, and both the men found themselves grinning. A peculiar warmth filled John as he glanced back ahead. A sense of security he had never quite experienced before. Suddenly, he realised, he had come to a moment of clarity:

The future did not matter. No matter how carefully one observed the world around them, no matter how accurate their deductions, and no matter how calculated their logic, some things were entirely unpredictable. Sometimes life just _happened_ , inexplicably and uncontrollably. No vow or ceremony or document could make any more official what he felt now, and what he had always felt, deep in the recesses of his heart. Even in the freezing rain on a Tuesday afternoon, with an aching jaw and weary mind, he had never been happier or more content than he was to be holding the hand of the person he loved most in the world.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_ :

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were a pair inexplicably and undeniably meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with me through this fic. It's done better than I ever dreamed it would, and I'm incredibly happy with how it's turned out. It's been a terrific experience for me and I look forward to improving and writing bigger and better things in the future. Here's to you guys, and to waiting on s3!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> KO


End file.
